Dead Inside

Sometimes when I’m along in small talk I am waiting for someone to demean me. I wait for them to get angry that my reactions aren’t the best they can be. Interest isn’t enough and the laugh seems a little off. Eyes too opaque; the sparkle needs to reanimate.

When we talk about the latest drone tech or the lovely venues across the tropics one shall wait for thrown water and ghastly seeking agreement, encouragement. One ought to, after all: everyone wants this, don’t they? This is the answer, this is why we are working; to spend the money, why don’t you? Don’t you have horizons to expand?

If not a slap, a scold. Why aren’t you talking? One shall wait until everyone drops the smiling and puts down each quelled knife amongst the incandescent lighting. They enunciate stonely and surely, handing the bill over, dabbing a handkerchief under, dots of blood: “Stop being a child. This is what we do now. You must master this art.”

But they won’t tell why.

“You’re being selfish as usual, aren’t you? Do you think we enjoy this too? It has to be this way. You ask all of these stupid questions, why are you like this?”

Who is anyone to judge? Even though it’s difficult to understand. But there doesn’t seem to be alteratives to understand either. These are the traditions, and if you readjust a necktie enough we can reap all of these responsibilities; we can drain an inner reservior until there is only a small river from concrete wall to border. Grip a thigh tightly enough to contain the same voraciousness one was born from. And if staring outside a watchtower, room of one, superimpose our still hearts and begin rearranging all the ways we ought to be and reiterate, everyday, what it means to live.

A fan site of some random gacha game popped up. They had hundreds of entries extrapolating their theories and alter-worlds from the base, and it was difficult to tell whether to envy or feel more confused. All that time spent toward such fitful imaginations, and it’s no different than this: what better way to spend an imagination toward the pleasing?

Waiting to slap you, too, in a way. For you to drop the act. Tell everyone isn’t fun. Tell us all you aren’t having a good time. Proceed into despair so all of the performances end, ensnare some distant camaraderie: to be the embodiment not of crabs in a bucket, but crabs on a beach, endless on either, and while you build your sandcastles others stare at tsunamis. As though being “right” in this situation can redeem the contempt you could have for the farsighters.

“What have you shared worth learning?”

Every single sentence seems like subterfuge. The only thing to learn is with hands around your neck; growing tired of the distinction, we can take turns. Maybe the flood of warmth before buried in snow is what’s missing.

What do you want to learn? If it’s nothing, well, the schematic doesn’t fit that.

If I visit the homelands and all the strange people sharing the same heritage I still find them foreign. They have things they believe in: all I know is heat and the infallible nature. If I give them enough dollar bills maybe they’ll bark with me.

The sins of this nature hide between. While appearing careful and neutral one could wait for you to sink into this abyss, too. With me.

To show you a life beyond petty feeling. A final excuse, if anything.