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Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams Telling myself it’s not as hard, hard, hard as it seems

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Sometimes he grows tired of rubbing elbows with old money and entitlement. So quick to gossip, so quick to judge—so perfect, or so perfect at pretending, when Ilya knows that he himself is full of flaws, a cracking facade that takes tiresome labor to maintain. It’s inferiority that drives him away from those that should be his fellows—he’s sure that they’re all darling daughters and splendid sons while he is, as he has always been made aware, a disappointment.

But Paris is like any other city, with its grimier spots tucked into corners just steps away from its splendors. Easy enough to find, when you know where to look, and Ilya spent a year traipsing around Europe and finding such places: underground poker games and backrooms where girls looked at him with hungry eyes and reached for his wallet. Sometimes and in certain moods, he feels more at home in such places.

Where he is now is nowhere so untoward. Just somewhere to drink where everything is lived-in and worn in a way that makes it feel real, where he can pretend that he’s part of this less well-heeled crowd of students and hipsters, that the flash of his expensive watch doesn’t give him away. 

But like recognizes like, and he quickly realizes that he isn’t the only one spending tonight somewhere well below their means. He could leave them be, but his curiosity gets the better of him, makes him flag the bartender down for a drink he slides down the bar, accompanied by a curious lift of one eyebrow. “One of these things is not like the others.”

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“Well then, you’re truly a fish out of water,” he agrees easily enough, like he isn’t exactly the same. Having a degree in Economics isn’t the same as doing something with the degree. Ilya has done fuck-all with money except spend it. And, honestly, he can sympathize with the headache. There’s only so much success and self-importance he can stand. “The only remedy I can offer is getting the fuck out of here. Can’t say I have a destination in mind, but the grass is always greener away from the investment bankers, apparently.”

“Well my degree is in English Literature, so I haven’t got a fucking clue what they’re going on about. Not that I care about investment banking.” Taliesin put his whiskey down on a nearby side table and rubbed his temples. “You got something I can take for my boredom headache?”

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I think I talk about you like a man prays in a burning church.

M. Brown (via 5000letters)

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“Wow, you really know how to sell something.” He says it sarcastically, but it does work on him, because he picks up the discarded magazine when he otherwise wouldn’t have. What can he say? He’s bored. People that only got out of bed today so they can tell their mother they woke up before sundown can’t afford to be picky. He flips through the pages idly, before he looks up again. “And what exactly do you find so objectionable in here?”

Flipping through a magazine, there was no mistake that the look on her face was one that made no secret of the fact that she was not impressed. With a frustrated sigh, she tossed the magazine aside. “Je ne comprende,” she stated, her tone laced with disdain and disappointment. “Fashion is not what it used to be.” She had made no secret of her disdain for this season’s upcoming lines, and would say so to anyone who would listen. “If you’re looking for trash, I suggest this,” she said, ready to hand the magazine over.

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“Tell me about it.” Ilya gripes with a huff. He’s seen Wolf of Wall Street, and he was definitely expecting more hookers and blow. Not that those are things he should be partaking in, he thinks absently and a moment too late. Sometimes there’s a voice in the back of his head, and sometimes it sounds like his mother and sometimes it sounds like his brother, and it reminds him that he’s supposed to be using this time to get his shit together. Tonight, it sounds more like his brother. He’d probably be having a great time at this party.  (Because Ilya’s always been the fun one.) “I have a degree in Economics, and I’m still bored out of my fucking mind.”

Dear Lord, Taliesin had thought a party with young investment bankers would be a raucous affair but to his dismay, most of them seemed to actually be talking about investment banking. What was wrong with the youth of today? Unwilling to engage in any kind of speculation on the stock market, Taliesin was sitting on a sofa alone, swirling his whiskey around in the glass and thinking about leaving. Trevor hyphenated-surname who’d invited him would be upset if he left, but even so… “I can’t believe this is meant to be a party.”

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Who’s that woman on your arm All dressed up to do you harm? And I’m hip to what she’ll do Give her just about a month or two

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…We’re all cynics and romantics, sometimes simultaneously.

Nick Hornby, High Fidelity (via theliteraryjournals)