Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble.
When you are an immigrant, you are a cultural – nobody. That’s how I feel at least. I try to squeeze myself, cut myself, change myself, convince myself, but the only thing left is the emptiness and boredom of lifeless existence between the shelfs of Barnes & Noble, looking for an inspiration, for something to move me, to connect to my empty self. The days, the past, the now, and the future blend into a long, tasteless, boring vomit, divorced from any meaning. I don’t remember why I came here and what propelled me to take this unreasonable, stupid step. Maybe it was anger, I don’t know. My mind doesn’t seem to exist anymore.
Suicidal thoughts between Barnes & Noble shelfs. Suicidal thoughts in the Barnes & Noble elevator, suicidal thoughts on the Barnes & Noble first, second and the third floor.