Bagel Crumbs

The bagel I'd started to eat moments before, sits there, deteriorating . . . I look away from the few, random crumbs littered around the now shot, hole-ridden plate. I direct my interest back up to the previous point . . . the window, proves a much more fascinating prospect . . .  

During the day, I snatch a few rays of light to myself, and hug them . . . I am internally thinking that I need to figure out how to survive the corporate world. I continue to try to win this fallacious game, which those who have decided to put in motion, have decided to throw me in. And yet, everyday, the results are the same. I stare out of this muggy gray expanse, which seems to be an astute portrait of my wet hopes and dreams . . . this artist has certainly done his work well.

Writing breathes the life into me. It gives me a reason to keep going. I write out text messages throughout the day to random people,  and hope that they will eventually respond . . . my heart is filled with so much hope. As I watch, I feel that my dreams are providing suckle to the wide, gray breadth. It's vast, frowsy mouth lined with white looms closer, and closer-

My eyes provide a measureless, dark gray portal to the picture.

Sometimes, I certainly need a reminder of everything I'm doing. It's difficult to pretend that you are enjoying the work at hand, when inside, you are feeling a completely different kind of emotion. I feel that I've never been paid to do such a mundane task before . . . sometimes, I feel that my life is slowly draining away into the cloudy, gray mist.

I live in this surreal type of reality. This surreal matrix. I have no sort of balance, and no grounding . . . my life is becoming nothing, because 'nothing' inserts meaning- it's context and it's colors, the dynamics of its great landscape, are worth nothing except-

These words, now, are being doled out like a swath of white cloth. Unraveling them, I feel an ironically peaceful sensation, at the mechanical way in which they move out from my head; and yet I know once they get there, they are going to find the other end of that spectrum.

I am building up this context of colorful energies. They are spinning a colorful ray of banners around my head . . . wrapping me in their artful beauties, captivating my mind . . .
Eventually, I am no longer able to think straight. I am, now, completely taken in by the sights, aromas, and sensations. Art completely colors up my life.

Each, singular desperate thought is finally taken away . . . each thread is replaced by a new thread. Each one is carefully replaced by the new strain, which is handpicked, by the weaver.

That was hours ago . . .

I turn away to my cat, and quietly tell him that he is the light of my life. There's something that's comforting about the fact that I will be in the office tomorrow, and I have shared that information with him. Other people in my family know, or course, but he seems to listen-

I also tell him about the match that I made on Coffee Meets Bagel. It's my first connection, but the man hasn't responded to my previous message. He seems to sense that I am restless . . . and yet, huddled under my covers with the cat, writing these stray thoughts makes me feel something like the joy of a kid, and that I am sharing secret exchanges that I shouldn't be-

My mind plagues me so that I can't sleep. I think of Heaven, and my mind wanders back to God. There are things which make me wonder, whether I should have gone down the path that I have, with regards to my spirituality; and, something nostalgic in me calls back home to my faith . . . I'm teetering between two lines, quite often.

My mind, strangely, clicks back into correct form, and the ensuing whir of the dendrites, assure me that it is functioning smoothly, once again. It is slowly carrying me into the land of sleep, and beginning that natural process which I so dread-

I truly fear the land of sleep. And yet, it's process- like that of a machine- is smooth, calculated, and precise- pretty soon, it will meet its target, and complete the program of its intent. Soon, it will shut down, and no one will, no external circumstance, or askance thought will enter . . . nothing will be able to disturb the quietude that I do crave. It is really ironic, that what I love most, in daylight, cannot be found. In the day, my only prospects are the foggy mists that present themselves from my office window. And yet, when I fall into sleep, the steady quality of my state of mind is an irrefutable fact-

Strange, the ironic nature of the relationship between night and day. They hug each other as tightly as best friends, and yet are separated by constant discord. The heavy weight of this separation lives in my mind and my thoughts heavily, during each phase,  and I hate it-

In the end, I am wrapped up into their domestic trouble, and their broken relationship inability-

So, I too, feel broken ~