Sometimes I wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to.
But then I realize it’s more like a mutual descent into nothingness.
It’s like taking flimsy sticks and hoping to build some sort of lighthouse out in these harsh island waters.
Oh how much one may write and not find themselves a sliver closer to what pulls them.
No one may know the lengths I go to leave my words sounding slightly hanging off the balcony, balloons for a birthday party.
Maybe through a talk or two one could convince they’ve a lot to teach and a lot more to do.
But I’m just not convinced. All those talks went nowhere, what of this one?
Talking rarely accomplishes anything!
It’s like wishing for another bottle of sleepy pills!
And you can tell how your day went, how you feel, where you’d like to sit in the amphitheater of two.
But you’re most often the same before and after; and it seems a little much to change while sustaining such plays.
I like to imagine each icon I see as real – people you would hope, people you would sympathize, mannequins you may inject melancholy in, wishing to pull back a hand of cyanide. I am hearing their call.
You do exist. I just feel a little disillusioned with the Internet. And it’s not something to mourn! It’s not something to mourn.