Travelin'

#Hoboken

- March 30 -

Hoboken is the birthplace of baseball. Also the birthplace of the excuse “I fell down the stairs”. Also the birthplace of the broken highball glass after slamming it down on the table for effect. Also birthplace for the chilling realization that you are becoming your own emotionless, cold, shadow of a human being that was your father. Also the the birthplace of staring at your hands, wondering which fork in the road got your into this mess. Also the birthplace of waking up in a dark room with a duvet cover over the window, you have no idea what time it is, hell, it could be five in the morning. You peek outside. It’s the mid afternoon. Also the birthplace of looking at the ceiling contemplating suicide. Also the birthplace of circling convenience stores in your Nissan because GOD knows you just want to FEEL something, ANYTHING. Also the birthplace of the Barnes & Nobles parking lot where you broke down crying. Also the birthplace of the same recurring dream where you’re chasing yourself, you’re running away, you can only see the back of you, and you’re chasing yourself to the end of a long pier, and then at the end of the pier you turn around to see your own face, and you have no face, who are you? Who are you anymore? What is this cold black universe? We are all monkeys with money and guns. Nothing means anything anymore.  Hoboken is also the birthplace of Frank Sinatra. 

Hoboken is the birthplace of baseball. Also the birthplace of the excuse “I fell down the stairs”. Also the birthplace of the broken highball glass after slamming it down on the table for effect. Also birthplace for the chilling realization that you are becoming your own emotionless, cold, shadow of a human being that was your father. Also the the birthplace of staring at your hands, wondering which fork in the road got your into this mess. Also the birthplace of waking up in a dark room with a duvet cover over the window, you have no idea what time it is, hell, it could be five in the morning. You peek outside. It’s the mid afternoon. Also the birthplace of looking at the ceiling contemplating suicide. Also the birthplace of circling convenience stores in your Nissan because GOD knows you just want to FEEL something, ANYTHING. Also the birthplace of the Barnes & Nobles parking lot where you broke down crying. Also the birthplace of the same recurring dream where you’re chasing yourself, you’re running away, you can only see the back of you, and you’re chasing yourself to the end of a long pier, and then at the end of the pier you turn around to see your own face, and you have no face, who are you? Who are you anymore? What is this cold black universe? We are all monkeys with money and guns. Nothing means anything anymore. 

Hoboken is also the birthplace of Frank Sinatra. 

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  8. thatandycohen reblogged this from nedhepburn and added:
    Harrumpf! Whoever wrote has never actually had to drive in Hoboken. Our Barnes & Noble (which closes March 31) doesn’t...
  9. brettivy reblogged this from nedhepburn and added:
    Absolutely fucking amazing.
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    There’s a certain fighting charm about us Jersey folk.
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