He was not supposed to be a jealous man. He found himself alone again. He ogles what he once called bourgeois-publications. Their prose, their effortless poetry, the a priori class in each placement of space. He turns. He rebukes himself for comparing himself to the wolves of the lower east side. As an artist. Or whatever. He loves the past more than the present. This is cliché, he thinks. He should have had things, he thinks; he is coming to understand that he wants to rewrite his-story. His up-bringing was too innocent, too honest, too moral. He would rather have bloomed suburban or upper; anything complicit’s worthwhile if the wrong was in the know. They’d rather be right than true, he remarks to himself, when he silently harangues the well-to-do he has known, dated, chased and lost. It’s amazing how quickly the rich pull away from difference.
He’s run out of options. He works a sales job. Of course it’s below him, but then he wouldn’t have to do it if it were, would he, he berates to himself. What’s the point of hating those in the know who’ve never experienced survival as a struggle? The lower class doesn’t know any different; it is not so self-aware. What does he want from envy? Pity? They have summer camps for that. The kids are guilt-trained. Entitlement as first rites. Isn’t that something. The vicious circle always returns. He remembers being told it’s all a matter of feeling, of choosing a viewpoint. His vision is blurring. He has to remember to find a way out of his sales job so that his vision will not fail the night, he thinks. He must remember to have it checked, after he finds a job paying well enough for him to afford the appointment, he thinks. Insurance doesn’t exist for those whose survival is in default. He should not go out, he should train himself to forget how hopeless things are as soon as he steps off the train, he concludes. That will do it, just leave it all behind, the Two Worlds Hypothesis never failed in theory, he repeats aloud.