On the desire for aesthetics

The sight of trash in my neighborhood pains me. It breaks my heart every morning I stand at my window to watch the dawn infuse into the city and come to face with the hideousness of human-made issues that still haven't been figured out. A reminder of the weight of our presence, a reminder of the slackness of it, of our embarrassing failings at the most basic of things : transformation.

I think of trash more than I am willing to admit. The one I produce, of which reduction or transformation doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, for what needs to happen is a decision that would impact and modify all of the city's, if not the country's  ways of dealing with its own waste, which this far seems to be indifference.

Maybe that's where my fear of sex (partially) come from. Of an internal struggle to accept the risk of reproduction as long as I have not figured out the fondamental issues of my own existence, of its consequences. Who knows.