I got home yesterday, walked into my room, and burst into tears. I realized as I sat on my bed: this is it. The end of an era.
And what an era it has been. I lived at 3208 West Street for the past six and a half years. I moved in here when I was 24, and I fucked that shit up for the rest of my 20’s. As I sit here, on this bed, I wonder what kind of things these walls have seen. What kind of things these walls have contained, and what they will hold after I am gone. In a house that is over 100 years old, who am I in this fleeting moment of time?
I fucked so many beautiful people here. Did a lot of drugs. Partied pretty hard. I used to hostess Monday night orgies here a few summer times ago. Definitely tried to kill myself in this room. I thought that I would die here. That I would live here the rest of my life. For a moment, I thought that I would have kids and raise a family here. Friendships were both forged and broken in this house.
I could tell a lot of stories about this house, but those are all recorded on Fuck Feast, so I won’t waste your time. Oddly enough, Fuck Feast is a phenomenon that was born and died in this house. Fuck Feast is, if anything, very much of 3208 West Street. I guess that’s why I’m afraid to leave – I have been afraid to leave Fuck Feast behind, and I now I am afraid to leave this place behind, because with it I leave a piece of myself.
I wonder how I’ll be able to write without this place. Who I will become. I spent my best party years at this house. I changed as a person. And perhaps now that change is complete, and it is time for me to move on. I grit my teeth and dig my heels in – I know it is time for me to go. But I don’t want leave this place because I don’t want to leave that piece of me that will always be here, that ephemeral piece of me that blossomed and decayed in this bedroom. I want that part of me to never to die, to never go away. But it has already – I am just clinging onto a corpse.
Leaving this place is an admission of failure on an even larger level than just myself. Many of my friends have moved away – some have come back, but most are gone forever. Some friends have succumbed to their addictions, others have succumbed so far that now it’s time for rehab. This city has changed. We have changed. My home was the last thing that I had in order to cling onto those people and those memories. This was the last place where I felt like things could never change, where I could be the same person and time travel in an instant back to better years. This place is stained with my memories, and what will I remember when I’m gone? When I’m gone – is that it?
There’s no turning back. I have been packing my bags and it makes me feel wildly sad to dismantle this bedroom, which, after six years of careful hoarding and curating, is a testament to my personality as manifested through tchotchkes and other various material objects.
I am lamenting. Of course I am. There is no going back once I leave this place. After this, there is only the future and the person I will become. I don’t know if I will like the person I will become without the place, without the wildness and the lawlessness of what my life has been in West Oakland.
I was young, and I was free, in every way possible, as much as I could be. But now that has been taken away from me, and I am prisoner in this society just like everyone else.