I will tell you why I try to destroy myself, time and time again.
It is because I am starving.
Last week, I was wandering around the back of a swanky cookware store looking for a bottle of wine, and I overheard the conversation that a couple was having with the store's owner, an understated French lady. The woman was describing her jaunt to Africa, and the man was talking about jetting off to Europe to play with the Berlin Philharmonic, or the "Berlin Phil," as he called it.
A hot bolt of jealousy shot through me as I listened to them, because they are the people I want to be. The class of people for whom it is the normal course of events to fly off to some distant country on a whim. The cultural elite. I am often around people who have money, but they had culture. Frankly, I don't know if it's a blessing or a curse to be able to discern between the two.
I have a decent education. I have read all of the musty philosophers, and I have seen the heights of the English language. I have even managed to master another language through academic study alone. But I have experienced little, and I lack culture on a fundamental level.
I wear an embroidered robe and expensive perfume and smoke opium with a two hundred year-old pipe, but underneath it all I am still White Trash. Nothing special.
I am lonely and starving. Starving for culture. One may die many, many times while living.