International Writers Magazine: Life
I awake only
to move to the couch. And there I stay, rising only to piss, or
wash down a Paxil. A Buspar. An Effexor. The sun rises. It sets.
Maybe it decides to rise again. The house is cold. I grip a blanket.
A playlist of The Decemberists hums repeatedly from a computer for
the majority of a day. Possibly two. Unmotivated to stand, to turn
it off, I stare in the laptops general direction, wishing
it was unplugged, so the battery would simply die. It occurs to
me that if this were the case the battery was to die
I would only be jealous.
No matter how much I sleep. Lethargic. My body aches. My head is full.
I dont want to eat. I dont want to drink. Breathing is a
laborious task. I wait for the day to end. I want the night to be over.
It may be the next day, but Im not sure. Everything is dark.
Another day is spent half on the couch, half hanging off. Images flash
across a television screen. Happy, ignorant people show me the life
I want that doesnt exist, in an attempted play on my brainwashed
consumeristic needs, calling out to me, and if I listen closely, I can
hear the subliminal whisper, "Come. Join the youth and beauty brigade."
The robotic mantra of a generation. Sex, drugs, and materialism. "Real
World" fashion clones. A society of lackeys. College educated yes-men
and women. Herd mentality void of original thought and mental capabilities.
Do what you are told. Mimic everything you see. Speak only in quotes.
Watch "American Idol". You too can belong. You can be cool.
You can be just like everyone else. Go. Join the youth and beauty brigade.
Smith April 2008
all rights reserved - all comments are the writers' own responsibiltiy
- no liability accepted by hackwriters.com or affiliates.