Messing with Reality

I love the way it comes together. 
Eliot: Humankind cannot/ Bear very much reality. 
You: We can tolerate even less the loneliness that comes from not actually seeing each other.
 
Literally with borders between us.
Like a book, not life.
 
“What do I mean by broken?  I mean me.” 
 
Triggered by the excitement of sitting outside at night, drink in hand, with a new friend, boredom followed, and a realization I don’t find most people interesting. 
 
The rise and fall of love is predictable.  I find joy with the dog or seeing a plumage of flowers.  Did I cross some bridge without noticing?  Am I depressed? 
 
The quiet was disturbing walking home. No one, or nearly no one, walks the seawall or sidewalks…only the homeless, drug addicts and dealers. People tuck into doorways on Main Street, curling in on themselves, used needles nearby. 
 
I am buying a used car, dreaming of driving away.
 
Looking to the landscape to save me, the rearview mirror to put life in perspective, chasing after myself, contentment, a little truth.  An amount of reality I can bear. 
 
Weather dulled sheen, cracks left in places, breakages around my mouth. 
Once, he said he was broken.  That’s reassuring.