(no subject)
I awoke one morning to find my windows were all broken open. There was glass in my hair and beard, there was glass in my blankets and covers. The snow was coming in between the gaps in my blinds and piling up over my body. I sat up and thought about how everything was going all wrong because of the choices I refused to make, how I quelled the fire in my heart that burned so strong and lived as a thin stream of smoke. The drum beat of my heart was being played with brushes, the skin that once was so taut and resonant was now wearing thin. I find no more passion, no more fury, no more despair, but ultimately, aren't we supposed to lose those feelings as we go on with our lives?
I squint against the smoke rolling up into my eyes as I shave, as I trim my nose hairs, and as I brush my teeth. Smoking helps me come to terms with my rituals. The tiny droplets of blood upon my collar won't be noticed by anyone because I occupy everyones blind spot. I am drinking coffee at my breakfast nook and I look out over the views and vistas of long dead cities. I imagine winding through the ruins, listening to the ivy creep among the dead and empty buildings. I imagine this and soon I am out the door, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. I am living a healthier, better life overall, but I miss things, I can feel acute pangs of loneliness at the most inappropriate times. The taste of tears and mouthwash, the sounds of traffic expanding and contracting with each hitching breath, the sun pouring out between buildings that reflect mans arrogance, it flickers like a cold florescent bulb. These erratic moments reflecting the person I once was.
I am at my desk, looking over files and reports that are needed and I sometimes see your name in places I least expect or keywords will jump out at me and remind me of a moment we shared. When these things happen, I have to put down whatever it is I am reading and rub my face, bring myself back to my current reality, where I will merely act out upon shades of emotional stimulation. This muting of my own character has afforded me many advantages, brought me great opportunities. Was it wrong to finally stop looking gift horses in the mouth? I can hear lines from the last conversation we ever had, refrains to some terrible, childish opera.
I remember how hot the room was and how uncomfortable the second hand couch suddenly felt. I remember you standing while I sat, I remember what clothes you wore and how your hair was styled, I remember the subtle amounts of make up you wore and the soft hints of the perfume you wore. You were so mad at me, I had decided to stay and persue something I thought would benefit us both, you wanted to move off to a new city, a new life, you wanted excitement again while I was starting to feel tired and dogged. You screamed and yelled and all I did was simper, I hadn't been the best I could've been in anything, and now I had a chance to get something of a semblence to my life, other than you. I was being selfish, but I wanted you to be happy for finally finding something I could actually do, something I could take pride in, something I could actually say about myself without feeling shame or guilt.
I'm in the breakroom, drinking more weak coffee and listening to my coworkers prattle on. They posture and pose around me since they can get away with it, I'm spineless now, I do my work and sometimes the work of others just so I can get on with my day. I will probably have a panic attack in the bathroom after lunch, feeling the tears roll down my face as I stand at a urinal, the muzak being pumped into the office triggering it, I can see it now. I'll zip up my fly, sit down in one of the stalls and try to control my breathing, try to keep my whole body from shaking, try to keep the sweat from running down my back, a river of social anxiety parting the forest of backhair. I can see it all so clearly, but I don't go into the bathroom, I hold it and sit in my cubicle and when the song begins to play, I have my panic attack in the tiny 2 square foot room where I work.
The worst part about all of this is hearing my coworkers chairs creaking and some of them walking over to watch this whole scenario, watching me fall apart for 10 minutes but they never say a thing. They stand and peak over the walls of my space and watch with some detached hunger, a lurid desire spreading from person to person, a flu of the soul that will never enter my own heart since I shut it down so long ago. They will all talk about this for a couple of days, I'll hear my name and various words being mentioned as I approach people and it will continue as soon as I pass them. They can smell the emotional defecency upon me, they can sense how weak and pathetic I can be when something overwhelms me. Maybe this is punishment for turning my back on what dreams I had, and how much I let fall away, or maybe I'm just not fit for this, any of it.
I squint against the smoke rolling up into my eyes as I shave, as I trim my nose hairs, and as I brush my teeth. Smoking helps me come to terms with my rituals. The tiny droplets of blood upon my collar won't be noticed by anyone because I occupy everyones blind spot. I am drinking coffee at my breakfast nook and I look out over the views and vistas of long dead cities. I imagine winding through the ruins, listening to the ivy creep among the dead and empty buildings. I imagine this and soon I am out the door, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. I am living a healthier, better life overall, but I miss things, I can feel acute pangs of loneliness at the most inappropriate times. The taste of tears and mouthwash, the sounds of traffic expanding and contracting with each hitching breath, the sun pouring out between buildings that reflect mans arrogance, it flickers like a cold florescent bulb. These erratic moments reflecting the person I once was.
I am at my desk, looking over files and reports that are needed and I sometimes see your name in places I least expect or keywords will jump out at me and remind me of a moment we shared. When these things happen, I have to put down whatever it is I am reading and rub my face, bring myself back to my current reality, where I will merely act out upon shades of emotional stimulation. This muting of my own character has afforded me many advantages, brought me great opportunities. Was it wrong to finally stop looking gift horses in the mouth? I can hear lines from the last conversation we ever had, refrains to some terrible, childish opera.
I remember how hot the room was and how uncomfortable the second hand couch suddenly felt. I remember you standing while I sat, I remember what clothes you wore and how your hair was styled, I remember the subtle amounts of make up you wore and the soft hints of the perfume you wore. You were so mad at me, I had decided to stay and persue something I thought would benefit us both, you wanted to move off to a new city, a new life, you wanted excitement again while I was starting to feel tired and dogged. You screamed and yelled and all I did was simper, I hadn't been the best I could've been in anything, and now I had a chance to get something of a semblence to my life, other than you. I was being selfish, but I wanted you to be happy for finally finding something I could actually do, something I could take pride in, something I could actually say about myself without feeling shame or guilt.
I'm in the breakroom, drinking more weak coffee and listening to my coworkers prattle on. They posture and pose around me since they can get away with it, I'm spineless now, I do my work and sometimes the work of others just so I can get on with my day. I will probably have a panic attack in the bathroom after lunch, feeling the tears roll down my face as I stand at a urinal, the muzak being pumped into the office triggering it, I can see it now. I'll zip up my fly, sit down in one of the stalls and try to control my breathing, try to keep my whole body from shaking, try to keep the sweat from running down my back, a river of social anxiety parting the forest of backhair. I can see it all so clearly, but I don't go into the bathroom, I hold it and sit in my cubicle and when the song begins to play, I have my panic attack in the tiny 2 square foot room where I work.
The worst part about all of this is hearing my coworkers chairs creaking and some of them walking over to watch this whole scenario, watching me fall apart for 10 minutes but they never say a thing. They stand and peak over the walls of my space and watch with some detached hunger, a lurid desire spreading from person to person, a flu of the soul that will never enter my own heart since I shut it down so long ago. They will all talk about this for a couple of days, I'll hear my name and various words being mentioned as I approach people and it will continue as soon as I pass them. They can smell the emotional defecency upon me, they can sense how weak and pathetic I can be when something overwhelms me. Maybe this is punishment for turning my back on what dreams I had, and how much I let fall away, or maybe I'm just not fit for this, any of it.