defectivejunk: A self-prescribed placebo

Waking slightly before noon, I unamicably part ways with my bed. Hung over from my night of tossing and turning, aching of past grievances, I feel the after effects of sleeping while half awake. I stare back at myself in the mirror. I see scorn and contempt in my eyes. For whom or what, it is undetermined. Coming back to my home away from home at home, I get online, the eternal litmus test for the state of the day. A cyclic state of boredom and reloading. There is nothing to be found here.

Hair of the dog.

I pray to no one in particular, since I don't believe in any, I think, that I could somehow have a call from a wrong number. Maybe they're looking for something up there too. I try to watch TV but it's all reality shows and endless sitcoms, laughing with the shows and at the audience. I try to watch the narratives in my head instead but they all end in defeat, and they're reruns too.

The clouds outside sputter rain occasionally, mocking me with mere intermittent bad weather. Ruining my chances to have a rainy day. The beauty of the calm estival silence only serves to fuel the turmoil. Natural devices of emptiness. The quintessential state of nonexistence.

I try to funnel my rage into electronic rockets, firing at enemies that don't exist. Blaming them instead of the no one who is truly at fault. I am a zombie on a killing spree. I can jump higher, I can sprint faster, I can regain my lost health. Back in the real world I am a stone, I am a never ending storm drain. Words disappear. I am the drearily foolish. I am the foolishly dreary.

From a corner of my room, an ethereal voice of fabric and cotton calls my name. It's my bed, and it wants me back for another midday round. The idea is quite tantalizing. But I escape from the day only to serve my time in the night. I shall choose to join it, or I shall return outside to the blinding cloudiness. I will take care of this situation. For once, I will be the rainmaker.

I'm only biding my time until something worth it comes along. There's something out there, waiting for me to find it. One day I may. I might still be redeemed. Somewhere in the strip mall of life, someone has to accept manufacturer's coupons. I will find them and turn myself in. Hopefully before I expire.

My sadness sense is tingling. I'm the last of the hangers on, the last hopeless man. The eternal Doubting Thomas, I remain here, lost on the idea of buying myself a new life.

Caveat Emptor.




(I have the soul of a poet - he sold it to me for rent money)

Labels: A self-prescribed placebo, defectivejunk