The City Inside

I've been looking for a cure for my solipsism, mostly in Lincoln Park and early shows in the east loop. There really should be a therapist for this shit, at least someone to pummel me with a blunt object until I'm damn sure that they and that object are real. Instead, there is Chicago. 

Its easier than I thought it would be. On the way back from the el stop, the carton of dropped eggs that spangled this morning's sidewalk has miraculously vanished; the bright asterix of fireworks over Wrigley Field appears despite me, the city an enormous footnote beneath it. Back home, I could will anything into being, provided I willed the wrong things. 15 below ice storms that freeze the electricity in the power lines. The airless silence in the basement, the braille the carpet leaves along my cheekbone as I lie there, too.

And now, 600 miles later, there is this sudden world outside of me. There are buildings of insane proportions and mopeds and whole parks full of children whose faces and freckles I could not dream with twenty brains. There are fantastic chemical sunsets, and for all of it, I can't help but miss my mind control, or whatever organ in me can shape a reason for how ludicrous and delusional and lonely I am, the blueprint of this stupid city inside me.