Happy Hour Is Over
I am no longer lean nor hungry. Hunger has been replaced with a gnawing that I distract with food, drink and risk-less entertainments. My days could be rote or they could be as free and unfettered as a plastic bag blowing through the empty parking lot of a mall that closed a year ago. Either way, their shape or lack leaves little distinction between them. This is not a life of silence; this is life as tinnitus. Life, far away, intimate, singing of loss, singing of the unsung, screaming just below the threshold of sense and clarity. A still life. A quiet life. A life that is a mask for a desperation built on procrastination.
Here I am; fifty ellipses all filled with smaller circles and squares, lines and trajectories, all starting and stopping as randomly as the original ellipse, following the trough of gravity dug by larger bodies but never touching them. My orbit has followed the same path, steady as can be, no matter how madly I ricochet off fashion or fancy, there is no agency to my ride. I am a passenger groping blindly for a wheel I cannot see.