this is me writing a stream of consciousness on approximately eight hours of sleep over the last four days

i got off the civic center station and somehow that was the action that finally brought attention to the awfully deep well of nothingness that sits at the base of my chest, a blackhole wedged somewhere between my diaphragm and ribs. i just didn’t give a fuck about anything anymore, and, perhaps, therein lies the problem.

so, in my state of not giving a fuck, i allowed tears to freely flow down my ugly, fucked up, i-slept-at-3-and-woke-up-at-4 face while walking down market street at the height of rush hour. i watched people shoot up on the sidewalk. i watched others cook meth a few feet away. i watched all the fucking tech bros hurriedly walking as if all there is to life is their fucking assembly line job disguised by perks and all the pastel trolleys screeching in the middle of all this fucking mess and all the shiny high end stores lining the edges of our consciousness to distract from our disillusioned minds and i thought about my fucked up face and my fucked up brain and i just

could

not

muster up the will power to do anything but cry as i walked down this street void of humanity, lugging a duffel bag of clothes and camera equipment on one shoulder and a laptop bag on the other. i was carrying at least 5,000 dollars worth of equipment and i couldn’t escape how perfectly juxtaposed the expensiveness of this shit is against the extreme worthlessness of me.

then, after 15 minutes of feeling sorry for myself, a homeless man approached me and asked, “are you okay?” i looked at him through my watery eyes and blinked once, twice, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, glanced up at the sky, and woke the fuck up.

this is all so stupid, i thought to myself. i smiled at him and said i was fine.

and then i went to work.