
Nothing’s New


In a world so heavy, some days, I gasp for breath.
The cosmic weight of it all crushes my lungs.
I gaze upwards, seeking a sign or inspiration.
Repeatedly, I am embraced by the world’s true face.
I wonder if this celestial art, with its vivid hues, ever looks down upon me and smiles…
if the sun sets to show me mercy as it whispers, “it’s time for rest”.
But how can I rest?
Atlas never shrugged.
Over the last week, I have consumed more media than I care to admit: Reddit posts condemning the new season of The L Word Generation Q, YouTube videos dissecting Lauryn Hill’s notorious behavior, Drake and the Death of Hip Hop….amongst a score of other topics and people. Considering I recently decided to abstain from social media it is a bit ironic, isn’t it? However, of all the content that I absorbed, a video by content creator, Soulr, has been branded in my mind. They produced a one hour video covering the shortened life of the late and great Kurt Cobain. Within the first two minutes of the video he asked a looming question, “how could someone who had all their dreams come true still be in so much pain?”. It resonated with me. And I thought it was such a silly question. How could someone enjoy all their success while depression and paranoia corroded their mind? A, literal, biological war had been taking place in this man’s mind; and when combating your own cells, how do you win? The intrinsic dread, the unwavering sense of doom that can only go dormant for so long before it resurfaces and reminds you of its presence constantly weighs heavily on one’s soul when depression decides to mix itself with the chemicals in your brain. Depression is the hereditary condition that makes people second-guess procreating. Depression is the bartender who serves you a genetic cocktail and forgets to pour in the optimal amount of dopamine that makes the libation drinkable. And yet- we question why Kurt didn’t make it? Cobain was undoubtedly a complex individual; but regardless of one’s complexity…depression, as an entity itself, is rather unambiguous. I say all this to say, I understand. I say all this to say, I felt connected to Cobain after watching the video. Now, I would be exhibiting delusions of grandeur to compare myself to Kurt and his genius. Instead, I simply mean I relate to the woes of having to navigate in a society that doesn’t fully understand what it is to have your brain conquered by enzymes that break down key neurotransmitters. I relate to receiving strange and apathetic looks when I attempt to explain to people that I have everything I have ever wished for and I still lack the desire to wake up in the mornings. So reverting back to the original question, it isn’t a puzzling inquiry. It isn’t even a revelation. It is just a reality that those affected by depression face and expect in our lifetime.
Between 7th and 9th dwells Saint Marks. I inhale the familiarity of the street. I marvel at the many spectacles of the night: a man crippled by melancholy is curled on S&D’s stoop; Bull’s is packed with intoxicated friends fumbling both their purses and words; all the while, tourists are naively fascinated by sidewalk vendors. As I aimlessly pass from one scene to another,
I catch a glimpse of you.
No street in the city could compete with such a sight. A cigarette is balancing between your fingers as you confer with a stranger. Are you a ghost? A reincarnation? I freeze under the Wine and Liquor awning, inebriated by the illusive vision of a former lover(?). I begin to examine you. I know I have to hear you laugh to see if the sound would prompt my heart to flutter. I wonder if your lips are so rousing I’ll recount how they feel in the pages of my journal. Desperation questions if your skin would feel as delicate as hers and if it would welcome my touch the way she did. I gaze at your eyes reflecting 886’s cheap LED light…how would I know if your eyes transformed into the entrancing hazel hue that hers did when the sun, too, competed for her admiration? But your cigarette butt met the ground, and your hand affectionately reached for the stranger. My inquisition concludes.
You could not be her.
My eyes revert to the disorder that never ceased behind me, and my body retreats towards 2nd Ave, seeking to ignore what had even brought me to Saint Marks in the first place.