"When he was 11 years old, his father- a Spanish teacher who used to drive his boy out of San Diego and over the Mexican border for haircuts- left the family. So now the child didn’t have a dad around anymore. He became fixated on dads as a result. He would visit the houses of his friends and neighbors, not to hang out with his buddies but to hang out with his buddies’ dads. While the other kids were outside playing kickball in the sun, he would slip into the darkened den and sit there with somebody’s father for the entire afternoon, listening to Sinatra records and talking about home insurance. He’d pretend to be a much older man, maybe even a father himself. Kicked back in some grown man’s Barcalounger, this skinny little kid would clear his throat, lean forward and say, “So. How long you been with Aetna, Bob?” He wanted to be old so bad it drove him nuts. He couldn’t wait to shave. At 11, he wore his grandfather’s hat and cane. And he loved the music that old men loved. Music with some grizzled hair on its chest. Music whose day was long over. Dead music. Dad music. How ‘bout that brass section, Bob?” he’d say to somebody’s father while listening to the hi-fi on a quiet afternoon. “Can’t find players like that anymore, can you, Bob?” This was back when he was in, like, sixth grade."
— “Play It Like Your Hair’s On Fire,” Elizabeth Gilbert on Tom Waits (which was circulating here a few days back and thank you)
(Source: melissa, via fictionz-deactivated20120304)
My seclusion was interrupted as I was going deeper into the mistiness of old ages. I imagined myself in an ancient time, where my state of being would be less damaged and more evolved, more real. I always thought that I was intruding into someone else’s life by living mine because I never quite felt I belonged here. I was estranged and disintegrated from my society, and they sure couldn’t care less.
I daydreamed about those places- the more I dreamed, my reality worsened.