After any number of days,
Frolicking and skylarking,
Playing the fool for a public without understanding,
He always returns here.
Here he crouches,
Staring through the window to the darkness beyond.
With the light shining from behind him
The portal is like a mirror
And he can see nothing but his own reflection.
The Image disturbs him,
So he extinguishes the lamp.
Darkness.
Only the sound of the stereo
Seperates him from the oblivion he seeks,
So he removes the final obstacle.
Silence.
All senses in limbo, save but for
The breeze through the cracks
That chills him to the bone.
Cold void.
He retreats back from the image now reflected
The pitch black field
Retreating back to the familiar
A light switch
The comforting sounds of his music,
Which, for all it purports to be about numbness,
Cannot extole the virtues of the topic
As well as the starless black field
Reflected with no light.
He takes a chance and looks back at the window.
The image of a body is restored,
Replacing the void.
His true reflection?
Shaking images from his head,
He allows his thoughts
To wander.
Where do they go?
Lamenting the daytime society,
Where cold, hard cash
Is a welcome replacement
For concern, thought,
Or spiritual meaning?
No.
Across the globe,
To the starving people,
Torn by war
Or disease,
Or ideological conflict?
No.
Perhaps then, to his nearest and dearest?
Family and friends,
Each with their own problems,
And the ways he can help them
Be whole again?
Ignore the Void?
Hardly.
His generation care about others,
But not in their free time.
This is reserved for bewailing their lot.
Creating endless lists of problems
Which pervade their lives.
And once the lists are made
They are filed away,
In a drawer,
A box,
A wastepaper basket.
Never to be seen again.
Problems are there to provide excuses
Not to be solved.
'Too big to be solved
By someone as worthless
As me'
Self-confidence drowned
In self-pity.
If you listen,
You will hear them.
Every day.
Each one trying to better the last
In a game of karmic oneupmanship.
Not willing to admit
That there could be someone worse off
Than themselves.
And so they funnel their angst.
Turning it to good use?
Creating masterworks of art,
Improving their intellects,
Making the world a better place.
Hardly.
Some come in pairs.
Their souls so chilled
By the winds of their own insecurities,
Their bodies so in need of a warmth
That only a flaming libido can provide.
Exploring each other,
Because exploring themselves
Might actually turn up results.
And they, like him,
Are afraid of seeing their true reflections.
Still more turn to other vices.
Carbohydrate-laden junk food
Gives way to
To ethanol-based stimulation.
Dulling the senses.
Just one short trip
From the palaces of lighters and needles
Which house so many.
Is to see your image
In a pool of clear liquid,
Any better?
Many embrace the oblivion.
Or so they say.
Sheathed in black,
And pierced with silver.
Every orifice displaying a trophy.
Taking their pain
And smothering it in eyeshadow.
Around each neck a chain.
A leash held by their masters.
Slaves to the inner darkness.
And a few,
Just a few,
Write angst-laden poetry.
Fuck this.
