Metaphorically Speaking
Tired of the television, he watches the dim light flicker out into oblivion. He looks for the light switch; its too dark. Always never enough lights on in the spacious house. Or what could be called a house, more like a cave. Instead of bats, lady bugs crawl throughout the cave. Their bright colors never mask the putrid smell they release as they die. And they die by the hundreds.
He sits down at his computer staring at the screen dreaming about getting up and making dinner. At least that would fill him up. Instead, he continues on in his gaze. Meaningless numbers, meaningless people fill the screen. He puts on his headphones, the noise cancelling kind. He can't hear anybody yell his name, even when they want him. And when he wants to speak to someone else he yells too loud. Or at least he used to. He taught himself to keep himself quiet when he talks with his headphones on.
The incessant beats fill his head, so full of things he has already heard before. Maybe he should get up and finally make dinner. Instead he returns to the screen. Checking for messages sent by friends. Always checking. Electronic mailing of every sort, turning up most often empty. He can't stop checking. Yet his mail remains pitifully nonexistant.
He can be there checking for hours. Always checking, maybe taking a pause to relieve himself of his own madness. But he only receives so little.
Nothing is as joyous a moment as when he finds himself with new mail. A connection, something new. They run so few.
A sigh passes his lips. Tired. Perhaps its time to make dinner.
He sits down at his computer staring at the screen dreaming about getting up and making dinner. At least that would fill him up. Instead, he continues on in his gaze. Meaningless numbers, meaningless people fill the screen. He puts on his headphones, the noise cancelling kind. He can't hear anybody yell his name, even when they want him. And when he wants to speak to someone else he yells too loud. Or at least he used to. He taught himself to keep himself quiet when he talks with his headphones on.
The incessant beats fill his head, so full of things he has already heard before. Maybe he should get up and finally make dinner. Instead he returns to the screen. Checking for messages sent by friends. Always checking. Electronic mailing of every sort, turning up most often empty. He can't stop checking. Yet his mail remains pitifully nonexistant.
He can be there checking for hours. Always checking, maybe taking a pause to relieve himself of his own madness. But he only receives so little.
Nothing is as joyous a moment as when he finds himself with new mail. A connection, something new. They run so few.
A sigh passes his lips. Tired. Perhaps its time to make dinner.