The Beaten Path
It's only ten at night, and I'm so deep-down tired that my eyes barely stay open. It's ten on a Monday night, and I can hear nothing but the rain on my window drumming a monotonous beat that I've already heard before. Nothing is new here anymore; everything is a repeat of something else I've seen, done, heard, felt, thought. It's wearing me down. I'm trying to break the chemical bond of repetition, get some energy transference around here, but nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Critique of the Bible? Take a crack at the Qu'ran? Nope, not interesting; the Bible is as dead to me as the old, bearded men who first copied it down, and I just can't get into the Qu'ran narrative of a god of predestination, a sick sadist god who allegedly creates subjects just to torture and damn them. And these thoughts, too, are old hat; my old hat, someone else's old hat, a battered chapeau already worn by a thousand other minds. It's all been done before.
Italy's a long way away; I've got to come up with some purpose for myself in the meantime. "Earn money" just isn't cutting it as a purpose these days; Books-a-million is eating away at the liveliness of me: the passion, the curiosity, the inventive mind with a million thoughts and fifteen different things to think and speak about at once. That mind is fading fast, slipping into hibernation or some semi-permanent coma, and it leaves a boring me who can't think anymore: can't think of what to say, what to do, what to talk about. I'm losing myself, so slowly but effectively, and I might not realize it needs to be stopped until it's too late. It's not too late yet, is it?
Italy's a long way away; I've got to come up with some purpose for myself in the meantime. "Earn money" just isn't cutting it as a purpose these days; Books-a-million is eating away at the liveliness of me: the passion, the curiosity, the inventive mind with a million thoughts and fifteen different things to think and speak about at once. That mind is fading fast, slipping into hibernation or some semi-permanent coma, and it leaves a boring me who can't think anymore: can't think of what to say, what to do, what to talk about. I'm losing myself, so slowly but effectively, and I might not realize it needs to be stopped until it's too late. It's not too late yet, is it?