Life Under the Bridge

Driving to work today, I noticed a homeless man walking along under a bridge. Suddenly it struck me that it might be nice to change places with this man, to lead a life where your only concern is panhandling enough money to buy food and drink. Where the only people that talk to you are the people in your head, and I would presume that your personal internal friends are generally kind and considerate. Where you don’t have to worry about getting your heartbroken because you have given up on human contact. Driving I thought that perhaps on days like today, cold and dreary days, you could stay bundled in your sleeping bag and watch all the people racing to work and dreaming of a life that is lost or just chatting with your internal pals. Of course, I don’t imagine that it is a good thing for a 34 year old to be fantasizing about being a bag lady. Perhaps it is something that I should share with my therapist, but then I don’t share much with her, I just sit for an hour on her couch and cry. I cry for a love that I thought that I felt that seems to be lost or even imagined. I cry because I think that it might wash away the pain. I cry because I don’t know if I can stop anymore. Perhaps the man under the bridge has an easier life, for some reason I doubt that he cries.

I also saw a man in the elevator drinking a smoothie and briefly contemplated the life of a straw. That is just because I am beginning to feel a bit edgy. I am used to a certain amount (read, lots) of physical interaction and it has been about a month now.