The Burden of Solitude

I woke up this morning with a stranger's finger shooting straight through my temples. Someone said that it was the day of resurrection, but I never knew what that meant anyway. The ominous heat broke through from my brain cells to my extremities before a massive flush of fever sent the contents of my stomach into a motion of upheaval. I laid in bed, alone in the cold light of a religious holiday, just waiting for a kind hand to be placed on my forehead. It was merely a pipe dream, but a sorry source of consolation nonetheless. My autumn arms are arching for a few rays of light to touch them before they wither into nonexistence. My aching back is transfixed with the burden of solitude. Within the walls of these apocryphal times, my heart feels wrinkled like the path that it followed into Siberia. 

A Century of Loss

In the frigid glow of sundown, I staggered to the place where an old casement window mournfully overlooked the blank horizon. Memory was playing tricks on me as I could feel it's stolen card up my sleeve. The decision was then made to operate on either a whim or a tear clogged artery. One of them had to be removed and the other initiated. I have felt a century of loss in one hour. I have felt the entire history of pain in a few criminal months. The holes in my weary skin are a thousand too many. Around the block again I will go in search of something that does not exist, overturning anything with a faint glimmer. How can such an overpopulated world make you feel so alone? There is fortune hiding somewhere beneath an insurmountable boulder. It must be out there somewhere beyond the panes of this dusk. It must be out there somewhere beyond the pain of mere existence. 

Marching to Demolition

I couldn’t sleep in the old bed again last night. Waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of a scream wasn’t exactly was I was anticipating. And then smoke alarms were sounding from wall to wall inside of my eardrums. It was as if the whole world was about to be washed away in a sudden flood of tears. I am far too sad to deal with people who float by without a conscience. It’s getting to be too much to even share the slightest discourse with walking mannequins. How can so many people carry on in a complete state of unthinking? The tightrope perspective has me shivering in my leather shoes. The March crossroads heralds a kidnapped perspective. I guess that no news is good news. Still, I am strapped to this chair with not a pillow to fall upon. Even if I was free, there would still be no road to follow. And here I am wondering what all of the particles come down to. I wonder why demolition proves itself to be stronger than unity.

Sometimes the Positive Things Don't Matter

This is only a summary of the last few days. You spent a large portion of time out with friends drinking heavy red wine in the early evening hours. You wrote a few features for the fairly well known publication that somewhat employs you to contribute. You went to work and only had to spend about fifty percent of your time wasting energy on anything. You spent vast sums of money on food and drinks without having any concerns for the bottom line in your bank account. You came home to your clean and beautiful Victorian home. You inhaled the wonderful scent of cherry blossoms multiple times while passing underneath them in the street. You pressed the strings of the old guitar until the sweetest sounds were emanating from its steel strings. You listened to a dozen records that moved you beyond compare. You received a package in the mail from a dear friend who loves you.

And still you are as miserable as the day that you were born.

Ever So Near

Hell is a concept that exists only in your head. But I am there. With a marble heart, the view is filtered through one hideous cobweb that has been pulled over my eyes. Throughout a see-saw half decade, ceaseless documents have been discarded. Business, as usual, continues to sit on our shoulders like wiry, awful specters. It often feels like the end is dangling ever so near. Even as those words were written, something disturbing was underlining them in scarlet. The foreshadowing of finality seems a bit frightening from this six month perspective. And now we are drowning on these arctic mountains. The landslides have become our world as they are all that we have grown to know. Existing every day just to waste time does not vindicate one second of it. It’s as dull as a bludgeoning in this poorly lit auditorium. Dull and dying. Cathedral cold. It’s too hazy to tell if momentum is building or waning while continuing down this slope of vast entropy. Was this all a blackout of some variety or were the details crystal clear? The ghost has returned and it’s like a negative of some childhood picture that I don’t want to see. Losing is not the way that I envisioned our predicament to close. Finding yourself in a prolonged bottoming out is no way to spend night after excruciating night.

Despair Without a Title

History is repeating itself again, but not for us. Useless wars in the Middle East smoulder on while nature effortlessly continues to take apart entire towns. It seems like everything is in ruins. The dust of life is strewn in so many directions. There is no purpose in trying to collect it anymore. Nuisance days uncork themselves, collect steam and then collapse into long sequences of feather light discourse. Meaning? Well, there doesn’t appear to be a whole lot of it from this vantage point, only disappointment like a volcano. The taste of regret has turned the color of anger as daylight savings revolves once again. With nowhere to go, I don’t want to stare into the blue void tonight. There is no warmth in that electric glow. Oh despair, how can you be escaped?

The Killer Blow

I think that the time has finally arrived. So I will box up everything and either toss it in the street or scorch it in the fireplace. At least that way, it would produce some final fuel for the fire. There is a hospital bed waiting for me at the end of the line. I can already smell the putrid horror of the electric lit hallway. There will be women waiting there who I will dream of smashing to pieces. There will be employers who I will imagine introducing to Jack Kevorkian's line. This distaste is unsettling, but it's all too real. What can I possibly do to send it away? Internal bleeding takes a lifetime to heal. I heard that you were walking down the road with your new groom last night. Now you have a partner in status and science. It warms my heart to know that your advertisement reeled in a replacement for you cling to. I guess we both thought that you could be alone for at least a short while. You act so tough, so self-righteous, so detached, but your weakness has been clearly revealed. It makes me feel so sick to my viscera. I'm certain that this, too, pleases you tremendously. The killer blow in all of this is that you have won. In your sadistic regime, I am out cold on the broken past that you left me. There is just a void left in between us. A wide entropy in our  heads. The space in our pockets gives way to the infinite oblivion of past tense intimacies. Yes, the moment has revealed itself. I hope to never see your cruel face again.