Another night alone at the bar, listening to vapid stories of people who find it socially acceptable to share the minutiae of their pointless lives to anyone who will listen and those who will not
I’m sick of listening to their incessant chatter over the din of a sorrowful melody played on a nearby piano made worse by the fact that the peanuts are stale
I come home crapulous and reeking of whiskey, sweat, and the fear of being alone, the foul odor clings to me like something that cannot be washed away
I crawl into bed in my stinking clothes and skin wondering what I will do tomorrow, but hoping that the choice will be made for me and I will not wake again
The stench of rigamortis would be added to the angry fumes already emanating from me, they’ll probably notice the smell before anyone thinks to look for me
Why would anyone look for me?
No matter, I wake the next morning against my wishes, wondering at this existential existence, feeling nihilistic, and wondering what that damn smell is
I stand in the shower motionless and miserable, not feeling any cleaner for all the soap and water flowing in rivulets down my skin, not feeling any less unsullied on the inside
I reconcile within myself that I must face another monotonous day filled with the usual, dull, uninteresting activities, work, but no play
Some part of me breaks, snaps and I decidedly want to cry out for the help that I so desperately long for, but something stops my throat, ties my tongue
Why would anyone listen?
I secretly hope someone will look into my eyes, see into my soul, notice my pain, but I’m scared of what they will find or what they may ask me
If someone did notice, I doubt I would have the courage to say all that I’m feeling, all that’s bubbling inside me, ready to burst and boil over
I’ll probably just say, “I’m fine.”