In Throes of Introspective Whining

A shallow morning; a funny dream and memory of a friend from the night before. He wakes up to a mattress grown thin and hard; much like himself. The burdens of life, both real and imagined had worn him out prematurely. It’s funny how the nature of their existence doesn't matter. The certainty of past, its irreparability can haunt as much as the uncertainty and choice of future. And the present, well, its an early, cold morning and he needs to get up…that can hardly ever be pleasant.

Crumbs from last night’s snack still clinging to the sheets stir something deep inside. He picks one up with a halfhearted finger, his body acting like that of a half-evolved  ape, blissfully and temporarily free from judging eyes, especially his own; as he found out, the taste of the crumb wasn't something he had thought he wanted. He sighed. Maybe it was something else that today’s hopes needed to reside in.

There is no bed in the room, just a mattress on the floor, a few essentials...and wires. Those black crawling snakes running around the room as if doing him a favor. He looks up at them dismally, not happy with the way they look down at him lying on the mattress while they climb up, and climb up and climb up...melodies from industrial songs meant for menial labors to sing while they do their repetitive jobs came to his mind.

Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.

Stupid song. He hated the wires. Hated the way they fit snugly into places they were supposed to fit in while he, a misfit lies lifeless staring at them as they boast of the spark in them. Stupid wires.

It wasn't a satisfactory morning at all; the birds were too loud and so were cars backing up, that irritating clink of the utensils that the neighborhood lady was washing. Stupid woman to not be able to handle them; stupid bird, stupid car, stupid man who is blowing his nose as if no one could hear the sound, that filthy sound.

It was not really the stupidity of the sounds, or their blatant randomness that made him cringe and curl, but sound of the world getting up to start the day when he didn't want to…stupid world.

Alarm…Snooze…Alarm…Sigh

It was a worthless day led to a useless night; no sleep, no rest, no well-deserved bed. His dinner was bland, some re-heated shit but he still had it, because life was now but a daily commute through smoke and traffic and he needed fuel.  The daily tasks are not a priority, neither is life, at least not for himself. “Is it time?” he wonders, but then decides not to continue the line of thought; afraid what it might lead him to conclude and do.

His eyes and mind both are tired from the yearnings brought by the daily parades of possible worlds he should be living; forced to wonder every time if he could. The world is a filthy stew he decides, he lies to himself; there is no one else to lie to, no one else to deny the future to but himself.

Yellow lights illuminate the shabby room; there is an open closet and still air despite the fan. There are books scattered, half read, abandoned like a cigarette that got too hot to smoke…Cigarette, he feels a weird craving for smoke, the burn, but realizes that he doesn't have one. There are people though, people he stays away from; maybe they have one…

As the nicotine rushes through, so does some relief; he can almost hear the neurons dying, screaming, relief seeping. Maybe that was it, his thoughts, dead, no longer troubling him. He smokes more quickly, eager to burn it down to nothing, more nicotine and more death until he can feel the final insinuations of his own thoughts fade away. There is only a butt left, which he puts down, deriving pleasure in every spark he kills, at least something met its end through him, something he is able to finish.

Lights off; Alarm set; Night.