Irrelevance

I'm not really much of an author. Never have been. Never too good at being able to piece together words. The majority of my life has been composed of heart palpitations and stubbing my toe into the corner of a table leg. There's not really much to cover when it comes to interesting events. I know that people get sad when someone dies because they are no longer there to supply you with the happiness that radiated from them, or the fact that they smelled like lilacs. Maybe you even used them for casual sex or that week's paycheck. I don't know. All I know is that there is no other calming feeling than waking up to the patter of rain against your rooftop. That your mother loved you very much, and even if she left you when you were just seven weeks old and never even had the time to tell you how proud she was of you, how you won the state prize in the fourth grade for painting that piece of art composed of mere stick figures bereft of a mother, I still cannot rectify her actions. I can just sit back and say that despite what she did, I know that the sun will come out and you will breathe again tonight when he slams the door in your face. When you run to your lover's house and the only reason he actually listens to you is because he wants to f**k you on the kitchen table because he knows the only way to get you to open your legs is if you open your mouth first and let your words drip like a leaky faucet that he can't quite repair. I know that if you compose a piece of art that you find holds a large amount of value, no one will understand it quite like you. No one will care what each intricate stroke holds. What hurt that night. How the only way you could stop the pain was to down a handful of Valium and pray for your body to go numb. Your coworker will ask you, "I heard you were missing from work a couple days, that you would pull into the lot but drive away and become exasperated." You will smile and shake your head in disbelief in reply because you do not want to believe that you could be so weak. And because your mother left when you were seven weeks old, you do not have anyone to tell that you're aborting your baby. This was just a one night stand because a large quantity of your nights are spent alone, so you just yearned to fill the void. But you know that sugar is on sale at the store and you head over there just to go see what deals you can snag on the way. You also know that there is a new job offer because you're quite certain that you're going to lose your current job. And none of those things matter anymore. They have become a part of monotony and you cannot just halt monotony's path. It is continuous and wretched and it will not end. So you formulate this plot. The only problem is, you do not know where to start. And I just wanted to tell you again. There is nothing wrong with crying in the public restroom at two a.m. because you could not afford the bread or because he left you or because you left him and you don't know why because you just feel hollow again. You can try to fill in voids but they will always find some sort of crevasse to slip into, some divergent that you may have overlooked. And maybe things will start to look promising again, but I have begun to doubt my lack of aspirations. I know that I will inevitably fall apart and I will not be able to be repaired and there is no way to halt the leaky faucet of my tear drops unless you sew up my tear ducts but I have no other solution.