Today, I am hollow. It is all I can do to stay in the flesh time. I am alone with no prospects, because I suck at relationships. Most of my neighbors despise or are afraid of me. They call me creep, freak, and loser, and although I don’t really care what they think, I don’t wish them any voodoo mal. I’ll rebound, but the next time is always further from the ground. It’s an endless loop, and the older I get the less enthusiastic I am about the next iteration.
My life is good in comparison, and I’ve a stable future (feel free to smack this wank-party with a titanium hammer), but the farther from the norm I venture, the less I relate. I am not addicted to drugs, alcohol, or sex; I am boring. I can’t even speak the language any more, WTF and WTP? The ZPG weighs on me; am I stunted and stuck in this vanity?
I use to be afraid, but never underestimate the power of delusion. I use to think it was always over there or twenty minutes from now, but over there is hell, and here is hell and in the future it’s more of the same. What difference does it make, I am in hell; but I can’t even feel these cold blue flames or smell crackling flesh. I’ve become my own personal zombie. I need brains and chicken liver blood, potato salad and a skullcap for my wine.
Yikes, I am creepy.
3 responses so far ↓
Rodger Jacobs // 19 April 2008 at 7:58 am |
Nice, Keith. I like this and the comment you left at Carver’s Dog, as well as the eloquent e-mail you sent me a few days ago. There’s a poet lurking beneath your surface that you do not reveal in every day interfacing. I know. I spent a lot of time on a bar stool at Vesuvia interacting with you and you never showed this side to me.
Rodger Jacobs // 19 April 2008 at 8:00 am |
Vesuvio, I meant.
What the hell is a Vesuvia?
keithecho // 19 April 2008 at 5:34 pm |
Rodger, Thanks for the comment. I don’t know if i am a poet, but I do love the word after word.