I can’t wake up from this nightmare of apathy. I’d rather be angry about the wrong things or heartbroken for the wrong people than what I am; tired. Too tired to argue that I’m right, or to ask myself if I even am. Too tired to hold a smile for the camera, or a conversation with the people in the same picture as me.
Music doesn’t speak anymore; chords just repeat themselves again and again under lyrics written by someone fortunate enough to be angry about those wrong things or heartbroken about those wrong people.
Strangers aren’t distractions anymore; they’re obstacles on my way to completing an agenda by default. I don’t question what my past self dictated; other than repeated conversation and older skin, there’s no difference between then and now.
I’m still a soul made colorless by screens and flavors and nights that absorb me; helping me to escape my body but not my head. I end up at the bottom of another stairwell just to get away from the noise, but it isn’t quiet I’m looking for; it’s rest.
It’s been one long autumn of raking in memories that do nothing for me anymore; bagging up bitter partings that were never officially goodbyes, then leaving them in my yard because I don’t know what else to do with them.
Rhetorical “how are you”s, hollow invitations to visits that will never exist, friendships built on words that no one ever meant. If I need proof that humanity still exists, who am I supposed to ask for it? The most I can ask for in this town is elbow room; not time, not even eye contact. Sitting in my backyard are a dozen bags of belief, trust, and love for people who never believed in, trusted, or loved me back. They’re sitting under trees that are only good for crooked shadows now.
And my reflection means nothing because all I see in my eyes is as many failures as I see tries; half-victories won by pathetic compromise. My neutrality isn’t some form of support; it’s just that I don’t fight back anymore. Daily conversations repeat themselves like those chords, sung too many times...by me.
Knowing I am capable of something still doesn’t make it worth the pursuit. At the end of another abused day, I have no vanity or pride left to appeal to. No amount of clapping hands makes an award ceremony worth sitting through. No stage, however grand, is worth the staircase to it. The chase is so old so early. There are too many more steps to take and names to be called; routines to be repeated, and mornings to read the same news over the same cup of dark, indifferent coffee. I dread the future the same way I dread enduring that award ceremony for a certificate I won’t even bother framing.
I asked the mirror this morning when I would wake up from this nightmare.
When I would start wearing colors other than apathy.
When music, my agenda, and strangers would become relevant again.
When half-victories would become insufficient.
And lastly, I asked the mirror why anger was beyond me.
My eyes asked one question back; when will you begin working for something worth getting angry about?