Sinister: you're lying as you confess

[lindsey baker]

i used to think this was a forbidden paradise of people i wanted to be like
and stories i should have a byline at the top of and a couch i could take
naps upon, as soon as neil the cartoonist vacated the goose-patterned
cushions.

now i know it's really just a wasteland of empty pop cans and half-filled
steno books, governed by four kids wearing gap sweaters, wanting to be
adults and professionals and something to compete with but really just
trying to pass econ.

the newsroom has started to make me sad. and i have started to wonder if i
want to be a part of it. or maybe just a part of this one. do things change
after school? does the lost feeling go away?

i'm sitting here waiting for calls. and i spend my life doing this. even
outside of work, which is quite the frightening and different story. i know
i can write, yes, that's evidenced. but reporting is black lately, and i'd
raher have red feelings about what i do.

perhaps i only feel this way because i've just been upset as of late.
lost was a good word. i feel like i belong at the paper sometimes, and at
the coffee house sometimes, and at home sometimes and in myself sometimes.
but i haven't found where i belong all times. i joined sinister and ventured
into #sinister for the same reason. to be maybe something to something. and
i fit in here sometimes. but i think there's always someone just a little
bit better, just a little bit more of what the people look for. and i see
them here.

so maybe that's why i write the people i do, to hope i see what i have in me
to be what the people look for. hmmm.

or maybe i should just accept being a lurker. popping out now and again to
complain. and then go away and wait for calls, for the whole world is a
wasteland these days.

loulou





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