And suddenly I am one of those people, quietly crying on the bus. Hiding behind sunglasses, but sunglasses are not a dam, just shadow, and so they spill over, overflow. I am a cliche--of what, I don't know--of quiet desperation, of anyone who has ever broken down surrounded by strangers on a public bus, wanting to be home but not quite, wondering where that is. This terrible, awful certainty--I have made a mistake. I have made dozens of them, and they have all led me to where I am, and from where I cannot escape. I want to run away, I want to never go back, and I would, too, except for all the terrible and mundane reasons that I can't. Can't not. I dream of leaving everything behind, going away where no one would ever find me, but where would that be? In this era of credit cards and digital technologies, I would be found. Impossible to really disappear, anymore, and so, what? Even if I lasted the year--a year--what then? What then? There are no more alternatives, I have exhausted them all and now here I am. Indebted and my soul signed away--a lease, a contract, and government loans, I am legally bound, legally trapped, going nowhere, and nowhere to hide. This much is certain--I can't. I can't. I cry on the bus and I lie awake at night and I can't bear the thought of going back, of doing this day after day, I can't, I just can't. I don't know why I ever thought that I would, that I could, but I can't. But I will but how long when every day is worse than the one before and it all comes down to why, anyway? So I can work 12 hours a day so I can afford my apartment so I can live in this city that I never see and don't know and maybe watch a Netflix at night before bed before I get up and do it all over again amen. Times like this I wish I was religious, oh Jesus please save me, it would be nice, anyway, to be saved. Please help me, dear amorphous something, dear nothing in the sky, please help. Because I cannot do this shit. I cannot do it.
Me and Thom Yorke, wondering how long before we can disappear completely.