There
is a dry scratchiness in the back of my throat as I walk down another familiar
passage to a bathroom that smells of ammonia and piss...
Strangers
glance at me as I stumble past, through the maze of people and chairs littering
the small space, hazy with the smoke. Anxious chatter, slowed down by sips
taken from overpriced drinks. I weave my way back to the table; friends are
waiting, chatting about another year that has flown by, gobbled up in the day
to day. The tedious nature of “getting the next thing done!”
Empty
smiles greet me as I sit down and take a deep drag, eyes watering I try to
become part of another predicable conversation. As I shift my weight, it dawns
on me: I abuse social lubricants to make it through, to impress and express
these strange feelings of dejected malcontent toward people that I no longer
seem to find interesting...
“I am moved by fancies that are
curled
Around these images and cling:
The notion of some infinitely
gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.”
