The paralysis of a small town celebrity. The places we go at work. I'm eating oatmeal and drinking tea out of a Hallmark mug. It's raining outside and the drip has reached a spot in the center of the kitchen. It is here I realize that I think about suicide alot. The idea of finality and self assurance. The idea of time eroding your ideals and paying bills. Catching up, ebb and flow. The past is no longer a promise.
Change requires work, forward momentum. Bring me your emotionally needy, arrogant and fabricators. Those lacking self control, esteem and a PG audience. I need a voice on the other end who knows the situation and the spin. A friend tax in the personality economy. The idea of being a relationship contractor, getting certified, being accountable. Building structure and artifice, facade comes up, alot.
Work induced narcolepsy and contagious apathy. A refuge from created disasters. Social programs, invasive personal questions, verbatim unbiased research. Wish you were here.
The eternal quest for something to talk about, boredom alleviation, ego massage. Reinforcing bad behavior and repeated punchlines. A conquered universe in a disparate world of war and commerce.
So that is what I do at work. I kept thinking about you last night at a movie. The past and change and everything going wrong and how to come back.
1 comment:
We must be in Life's same hot dog casing, squeezing into and out of the same old mangled guts of the same old mangled guts. I woke up yesterday thinking about the same thing. Laying there in bed with ceiling fan on the lowest setting; mostly for the ambient noise. But you lie and say you're hot. Thinking about how doorways are metaphors for doorways; how the wood grain can be so condescending on the wednesday after a tuesday. It seems so obvious at times. It will end like that. I can't think of a hug that would do for me what the drip did. Pure as a child's heart, you know. It is an eternal quest. An "infinite jest," so he said. And I guess that's always the answer: the un-cola to my single-serving soda suicides. It could always get worse. But then again, it could always get better. Miss you.
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