The Fear

This is our "Music From A Bachelors Den"
The sound of loneliness turned up to ten
A horror soundtrack from a stagnant water-bed
And it sounds just like this

The weekend comes and goes, with little to mark its passing. It rained. And then it didn’t. Images flicker on television, unseen. The phone is tucked away in my pocket, unused. I go outside. I go inside. Nothing changes.

I observe the huddling masses. Shopping carts roll, their handles gripped with tight, white knuckles. Free samples are tossed about. Sausage, ham, something fishesque, sausage, salami, meatballs, sausage. Eyes grow hungry, hands claim unwilling prizes. My stomach turns.

No one remarks. No one interrupts with sage advice. No one notices that I spent much of my time staring at the clock, counting out the minutes until the weekend coughs and sputters in its dying moments. They don’t realize that it’s not much different than what I do weekdays.

The faces are tired, and angry. Very angry. I’m amused, naturally. I mean, I’m miserable, too, but at least I’m not miserable because the Eagles lost that one game or I’m not getting what I want for dinner. A salad instead of a pizza? For shame. I come by my misery quite honestly. I earned it.

I earned it in the trenches of life experience. I earned it by properly hating myself for who I am and who I’m not. I earned it by my inability to connect. I earned it with my lies. I’m not happy being miserable, but at least I find it mildly comforting. I’m used to it. These people will never be used to it.

I go outside. I go inside. Nothing changes. I’m apparently causing someone other than myself (for once) to act out in a passive-aggressive manner. I get it. I really do. But I just don’t care anymore. I isolate myself to make the feedback feel more pure. But it doesn’t work. It never works.