I have no thoughts to express, no feelings to explain, but despite this lack of motivation, my hands insist there is something to say. I guess I’ll see what’s on their mind:
It seems as though my internal clock is running fast, or perhaps not set correctly.
When I am awake, the world sleeps. I sleep when they, the world, wakes. They scurry about like rodents looking for the crumbs from my dreams. They feed on my passions, they gorge themselves on my waste. I wake to find them fat and slow, and I run fleet footed around their bloated forms; almost corpses. They are so much slower than I am, and they are competing in a crowd of likewise stagnant people. How they ever hope to become more than this, I can’t imagine.
Then why do I always feel like I am somehow failing? That somehow they are so much better off than I?
It seems like such a simple thing, to stop running, to feast on garbage, to take and take, give nothing in return. To horde and scrounge and drool and embrace selfishness. If I could just do this, I could be as happy as they seem to be.
I have to hold to the idea that they are not happy. That they, just like me, are just very good at pretending. That deep inside they are as alone as I am, as constantly sad, and perhaps just as disgusted with themselves. As long as I can believe this, I can see that it is better to remain fast, free and alone. As long as I can believe this, I can remain myself. Someday though, perhaps someday soon, I think I might just give in, give up, and quit running. If I allow myself a closer look, I’ll see there really is no difference between myself and them.
That’s the thought breaks my heart today.