It’s too claustrophobic. I tend to stay inside when it’s dark. At least in here, I know that something is there. I know where my walls are, know what’s behind them, and know that it will always be there. Go out on to the streets of Brooklyn in morning, walk along Pike Street to Park Slope, don’t talk to anyone. It’s okay. Nothing feels bad apart from the sense of wasting a life in a way that most people who don’t live here think is glamorous but it’s not. The sky is blue.
Go out again at night and find Brooklyn too close for comfort. The glamorous stalk out of their apartments and congregate in the same streets walked earlier that day. The stars are out, but not in the sky. Light pollution from our lives shields the night from our eyes, smearing it a rusty brown. It’s lower than it should be. Who knows if it will stay like that? What if the pollution leaks out into the day? What happens when the ceiling is only so high? It’s too claustrophobic. I tend to stay inside when it’s dark.
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