The fictional biography of a hopeless poet
I have come to the realization that I’ve reached the point in my life where I no longer care about anything. I’ve given up cooking, I’ve given up cleaning and I’ve even lost the joy in my favorite activities, writing and drinking. The shades are drawn and the air in the apartment has a heavy feel to it, a musty thickness that feels unclean. Have you ever sat in a room where the air feels unclean? Its an experience to say the least. Everything is covered in a layer of dust and ash, I’ve taken to scribbling meaningless haikus in the filth on the coffee table. Empty peanut butter jars and tuna cans overflowing with cigarette butts and dispelling an aroma heavy enough to taste.
This is what my life has become. A loneliness brought on by my own unwillingness to leave the apartment. An emptiness forced upon me by my constant need to drive everyone away. A hopelessness created by my own apathy. I simply do not care enough about anything to hope for something better.
Writing has become a job, more of a duty actually. I no longer write when I want nor write when inspiration strikes me, no, I instead write each morning and each afternoon and most nights in order to fulfill the quota set upon me by the people paying my salary. A salary I waste on this shitty apartment, cheap alcohol, cheaper cigarettes, and even cheaper women.
Words, once my friends, once my escape from everything I despised, have now become just another enemy. This is my life and I am closer to ending it with each and every passing day.
