Is it in poor taste to want to stand out? To want to be better than I am? Better than you are? I sit on a streetcorner in Utrecht, swallowed by the crowd, overcome with sonder. The infinite context of every word spoken and every brick placed, laid bare for me to see. Every cigarette butt and rusty bike. Every drag taken on my joint that the coffeeshop had cut with tobacco, unbeknownst to me. The rain tapped my coat, and I wondered why I felt dizzy. I sat for hours observing that for which I lacked comprehension. The streets were like the canal. Flowing past me with no regard. From where you come, I know not; and to where you’ll go, I know even less. Dear river, your infinity, I want to drink it all! I beg to know your adventures, your loves, your tragedies, your triumphs and losses. But I don’t merely wish to know of them, I want to be intimate with them! Take them to bed and study their hair while they listen to my lungs drag in contaminated air. I want to argue with them and plan a future with them. I want to discuss our kids’ names, and I want them to break my heart. I want to hate them for how much I love them. I want to profess a eulogy at their funeral and watch them fade into the feedback noise of Time until there’s nothing left but an impression of something that used to be. An abstraction of all the life that wasn’t lived. I want to be them. Do you want to be me? Would you then be fulfilled in your pursuit of life? I suppose it is in poor taste to want to be better than you.
Like, what does that even mean?
Psuedothought 