This, Mark's come to realize, is the truth about bohemia: It's a state of mind, not your living conditions.
He had bohemia so many years ago, with six people crowded into a loft meant for four at the most, laughing and talking and feeling more alive than he'd ever feel again. He had bohemia again after that ended, living technically alone in the same loft, with people constantly coming to see him or calling him out of it, almost completely happy.
And both those times, he knew it, and everyone around him knew it.
But he's found out that now -- now, in his early thirties with everyone he'd loved then dead or almost out of contact -- now, in the same apartment fixed up, paying the heat, paying the electric so the lights never go out anymore, working a steady job alongside his filming, living with a professionalrichgirl/gymnast/notquitepainter with tastes occasionally so different from his he's amazed they don't argue more often -- now, he's living in bohemia again.
And the amazing part about it all is, he's happy. Maybe not as happy as the first time around, but definitely as happy as the second. It's nice to have a real apartment, instead of a crash pad. It's nice to wake up next to the same woman every morning, to fall asleep with her every night, to know she'll be there with a kiss and his jacket when he's got work and to be sure she'll be around long enough to learn all his little quirks and signs.
It's not perfect; it's not true-love-forever. But then again, neither is bohemia.
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timeasmymeasure
The Truth About Bohemia, Rent, Alison/Mark, bohemia, G
Date: 2007-03-28 08:58 pm (UTC)He had bohemia so many years ago, with six people crowded into a loft meant for four at the most, laughing and talking and feeling more alive than he'd ever feel again. He had bohemia again after that ended, living technically alone in the same loft, with people constantly coming to see him or calling him out of it, almost completely happy.
And both those times, he knew it, and everyone around him knew it.
But he's found out that now -- now, in his early thirties with everyone he'd loved then dead or almost out of contact -- now, in the same apartment fixed up, paying the heat, paying the electric so the lights never go out anymore, working a steady job alongside his filming, living with a professionalrichgirl/gymnast/notquitepainter with tastes occasionally so different from his he's amazed they don't argue more often -- now, he's living in bohemia again.
And the amazing part about it all is, he's happy. Maybe not as happy as the first time around, but definitely as happy as the second. It's nice to have a real apartment, instead of a crash pad. It's nice to wake up next to the same woman every morning, to fall asleep with her every night, to know she'll be there with a kiss and his jacket when he's got work and to be sure she'll be around long enough to learn all his little quirks and signs.
It's not perfect; it's not true-love-forever. But then again, neither is bohemia.
--
(267 words.)