A rolled menthol cigarette smolders at my fingertips. Smoke mixes with carbon dioxide as I exhale into the frigid air. My head is somewhere else. Twisted up in thoughts of pain, lost love, humiliation, embarrassment over not expecting any of this. I should have. A joke was played. Someone, somewhere must be laughing at me and my tiny, hurt feelings. Something inside me is laughing at me, telling me how much easier it would be if I was unfeeling, uncaring, cold.
A dead squirrel blocks my path. He's fat from gorging on nuts for the winter, but winter has taken him instead. He looks stiff. Either frozen or in the process of decaying, much like the rest of the city at this time of year, much like myself. The dead rodent is startling at first, funny after second thought. It figures such an omen would appear so obviously at my feet, steps from home.
It's interesting how sometimes the very things that keep us breathing, moving, wanting to trudge on for years through this wicked labyrinth of life can be the same things that cause us unbearable hurt. Much like drugs. Not as simple to kick, and incredibly more addictive.
I can feel myself pulling away, inside. The eyes in my mind staring back at me. It's a comfortable numb, to quote a horrid song. I've been here before. It feels like a sick relief and it's no place to be if you're looking for happiness, but I think I'm done looking for now.
I flick my cigarette, stepping over the carcass and into my apartment building, daydreaming of how I could replace my veins with wires and my emotions with gears and computer chips. If only, I think. If only...
A dead squirrel blocks my path. He's fat from gorging on nuts for the winter, but winter has taken him instead. He looks stiff. Either frozen or in the process of decaying, much like the rest of the city at this time of year, much like myself. The dead rodent is startling at first, funny after second thought. It figures such an omen would appear so obviously at my feet, steps from home.
It's interesting how sometimes the very things that keep us breathing, moving, wanting to trudge on for years through this wicked labyrinth of life can be the same things that cause us unbearable hurt. Much like drugs. Not as simple to kick, and incredibly more addictive.
I can feel myself pulling away, inside. The eyes in my mind staring back at me. It's a comfortable numb, to quote a horrid song. I've been here before. It feels like a sick relief and it's no place to be if you're looking for happiness, but I think I'm done looking for now.
I flick my cigarette, stepping over the carcass and into my apartment building, daydreaming of how I could replace my veins with wires and my emotions with gears and computer chips. If only, I think. If only...
