Saturday, July 11, 2020 1am
The only burden of the MIddle Class is that of guilt. Constant guilt - have I done enough? Constant guilt - have I worked hard enough? Constant guilt - when will I get my chance at glory; yes I know there are so many who suffer and I am not struggling; yes I know that I don't worry for food - but I want my sprawling home. Hell, at this point I dream to own more than a townhome. The truth of love seems so far away in the pursuit of material happiness. At what point is my partner more than just an aesthetic and emotional accessory? Is true love more substantial than the fragility I've only experienced it thus far? In each romantic relationship, the veil of perfection was shattered at the first instance of betrayal, real or imagined. Is this the fault with my own experience and psyche, or have I yet to find exactly what I need. Is it possible that there is one thing you need or does that also change as you grow and one is only lucky to find a person that grows with them? The city I love is one that was founded on transience, as oxymoronic as that sounds, and yet I find myself absolutely enamored with the whole place. I adore every glittering light and dingy gutter, every glittering chandelier bar, and sawdust dive bar. For so many others this place is one for temporary pause and not long term growth, but it so perfectly reflects who I am as a person. A jewel amongst sand dunes, an oasis tucked between mountains.
I want a home. I want more than my two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment. I know that more space will only feel more lonely, but when I'm watching these television shows of home remodeling and first home searching, all the couples seem so happy and complete. And I know that not everything is how it seems on old reruns of a basic cable television show. That not everyone is as happy as they seem on the television screen in the doctor's waiting room, but at least they aren't alone. At least they have someone they can feel vulnerable with. They have someone who wants to check on them from the goodness of their heart and not from some feigned social obligation.
When a man is laid up in bed with a disease discovered only months prior, many things pervade his imagination. Should I pencil out a last will and testament for my meager belongings (though maybe not so meager, it's all perspective. Please see above) or should I just hope that the American system is designed for a man of 29 years to die of a mysterious medical situation and his surviving parents to handle his affairs? Yes, I should have had something written.
I looked it up. According to all of the calculators and interactive articles, I am solidly middle class. I'm not making enough to subjugate the plebs into allowing me to gain massive wealth, but I also am just beginning to break free of the circular poverty pipeline that so riddles our populace like holes in swiss cheese. At this point, it all seems to be a matter of whether I partner up and reproduce or continue the longterm romantic lifestyle that is averaged in a life of rollercoaster ups of entertaining a number of callers and the lows of being so utterly alone even 100 square feet feels massive. I'm not sure what is more likely to happen, but I do know that I don't want to be alone. I know that friendly relationships are no substitution for having someone rub your back, the moonlight streaming through the blinds.
