To those Who thought there was Hope
Imagine yourself in a cold waiting room with nothing but day old cheesecake and a box of stale tricuts. On the other end of the room a wall with revolving doors and long rectangular windows leers at you. The building is cheap so they’re made of plexiglass. Everything is cold and ugly and no one sits there with you. You are all alone waiting for something but you cannot remember what. There are no exits just the revolving doors and they spin too fast every time you use them. You have to face it, you are stuck in this room and nothing anyone says is going to make that feel any better.
Things circle in the heavens above, the ceiling stretches on far grim, pointless eternity. You see the buzzards fly but never taste their shadow. Nothing can touch you here. You can’t even move yourself. All actions are null and void in this cold waiting room. All you are is a pair of eyes to see, hands to hold, tongue to taste, skin to hold in the meat that makes up your body, ears to hear the creaking floorboards and the raindrops somewhere outside. The persistent beep of an intercom left on in a surgery center where someone’s heart is still beating even as their mind has left them and their soul has died.
Depressing? The room is only a place and there are many like it. A place will always inevitably be a grim horror to be trapped in. Any one place, sooner or later will become the waiting room. Your small town, a rich man’s mansion, the bathroom stall where you hide and get loaded in the hopes that no one will see and no one will know. The bed where you sleep with your girlfriend. The woman you love, your mother, your father, your family— vultures in the heavens and dust in the wind. Nothingness broken up by brief specs of light that seem almost vulgar and obtrusive in an otherwise consecutive void.
You say the words over and over as the road unfolds and you leave the waiting room behind. From one small box to a larger and from a larger into an even smaller box and that box moves under the ceiling that is sky. You drive on seeking other boxes, other places to put yourself. Your entity is not happy anywhere. Yoga does not do enough. Drugs are not up to snuff, no woman can ever love you enough You are alone in the endless flow. This stream is cold and quiet and flows fast through the rocks whereupon you injure yourself and carve holes and scares into your face. Once that mask was young and fresh but now it withers with age getting older and quieter, more tragic and less calm with each passing sun.
And this is a long drive for someone with nothing to think about. Such grim abominable determination grips them all. The other fleas in the circus think they fool each other and so do you. But life remains a circus and endless stage of boxes and boxes and boxes and never freedom. No freedom. There never was. Slaves to themselves, countless fleas in countless waiting rooms all trying to smile. Waiting for that day when they have something free. When they have sucked enough blood to roll absentmindedly but that day will never come and so the bloodsuckers keep sucking blood. And when its all over, and every last good thing is sucked dry there will still not have been enough. And the fleas will all die cold and alone, one by one, in waiting rooms with revolving doors, leering windows, and ceilings stretching to eternity where they see the vultures flutter but never taste their shadow’s touch.