I find myself sipping wine of late. Twisted in sheets with my face illuminated by the glow of a kindle. It’s 8 PM on a Friday night, and I tell myself such solitude is fine. No one’s ever criticized for reading too much, not even if it’s a form of escapism. But the truth is, I know. It’s a class A drug. That visceral sense of transcendence; the recreational effort to hold hands with Alice and tiptoe the rabbit hole. It’s like this: sometimes I grow aware, albeit tragically so, that I’d rather live the life of a rickshaw driver in Cairo than muster the courage to face the realities that are tangibly in place.
Some nights I spend hours contemplating the question of who I want to be. But all this only highlights the impending sense of an ending that triggered such thought in the first place. —The knowledge that life will pass as quickly and as bitterly as test tube tequila shots served at a student event in Shoreditch.
Alas, it becomes obvious. Every damn decision made every damn day is an affirmation of one thing and one thing only. The best any of our lives can amount to is an adaptation of the stories that could have been.