Microwaved Toast

Limp. That’s how I feel. Limp.

My brain is an overripe tomato,

my heart an old apple.

My soul microwaved toast.

Here I am, sitting home alone.

No people, no games, no exercise, no food.

No distractions. No inspiration.

No life.

So why do I feel good.

Mum has fled to her brother’s place with my sibling to fish and forget.

Dad’s at work, serving drinks cold and smiles just a tad less polished than his shoes.

He took the modem again.

And I’m just here, at the computer, typing about it. Feeling good.

I wonder what all the people I’ve called friend are doing right now.

Drinking? Screwing? Laughing? Reading? Gaming? Thinking? Having a one-on-one with a snail?

And me with my biscotti and orchestral melancholy, slowly turning the insides of

my head into pixels, my thoughts into data, and myself into a lost wreck, without even the glory of mystery.

So?

So what?

So why do I feel good?

…

…

Because it’s what you wanted.