Let’s set the scene, make it a little intimate. I’m at home, my mom’s home and, to a certain degree, my home. It’s mostly her home—I’m a temporary resident by choice, or so I say.
It’s been about nine hours since I wrote those first few lines. I was going to set the scene: a tiny cup of coffee, overalls, and 5 open tabs. Now we have a Fake Zine hoodie, a blanket, and an annoyingly bright screen that I refuse to let go of. Can you visualize it? I hope so.
I visited the city, New York City, and remembered what motivation felt like. Not the motivation that life coaches try to sell you on so that you can become a better version of yourself, but that day-to-day motivation that makes you think that life is worth experiencing every so often. The kind that makes you look forward to cooking yourself dinner every night.
I celebrated my birthday alongside a handful of friends. I rarely celebrate it, never been about it really. I don’t like gifts —most of the time, people give me shit I don’t want. I won’t pretend to love it, and it’ll end up in the pile of junk resulting from my quarterly spring cleaning.
There’s no better feeling than throwing shit away.
This item? Gone. Instant gratification. Sometimes I buy stuff just because I know I’ll eventually donate it. Whether it’s a result of capitalism’s persuasion or some sort of fucked up thrill of running away, I don’t mind. Ask Marie Kondo; she gets it.
I can’t stop thinking about liminal spaces. They’re the space between here and there, or between there and here. Purgatory, in a sense. Living at home feels like purgatory.
Liminal spaces are somehow both frightening and comforting. I can’t really explain the idea without sounding like some snobby prick who thinks they’re smarter than others because they read a George Orwell novel or listens to indie bands that are no longer popular yet promote fake nostalgia. You know the kind of people I’m talking about.
I do think I’m smarter than most people, but it’s not because of what I’ve read or what I listen to. I just am. I’m also entitled enough to believe that my thoughts, such as these, should be read by others, as if what I have to say matters more than other pieces of writing that exist in the infinite world wide web. To get anywhere in life, though, you have to be entitled enough to believe that you deserve it, regardless of whether you do or don’t.
I’m thinking about liminal spaces again.