After the Party Ends

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Went out for a walk the other day. And the dusk, as usual, masked the descent of another day into the horizon.

I love dusk. I love the liminality of it. The cool warmth; the warm coolness of the pavement as it exhales the toils of the day.

And yet, nostalgia seeps from marrow to bone. Walking through the city, following the simple to-and-fro of its indifferent rhythms, I wondered about what life could have been had different roads been taken.

While I’m grateful for where I am, I had plans and expectations–few if any have emerged to fruition. Old frustrations pulse beneath a scar that flares. I’ve been here seven years and neither one thing nor the other has actually happened, all the while surrounded by a system that never fails to tell me my dreams are not my own, my dreams are too big, or that the simple dream of surviving decently is too much to ask.

A system that insists on telling me where I need to stand, where I need to go and when I can speak (plot twist: up to them, never. The system demands silence while others appropriate my words)