You know what’s appalling? The fact that I wake up at six o’clock in the morning five days a week just to make pieces of papers also known to people as money. I wake up and drag myself to the bathroom, bathe, put clothes on, occasionally put some products on my face, eat breakfast, kiss my cats goodbye, take the train, get off the train, wait for the sodding bus, get on the sodding bus, get off the sodding bus after a half-hour bus ride, grace everyone in the office with my presence, start work, anticipate lunch hour, have lunch, resume work, anticipate getting off work, get off work, wait for the sodding bus again, get on the sodding bus, get off the sodding bus, take the train home, get home, have some nonsensical conversations with my cats, eat dinner, read, contemplate life, coming to terms with the fact that being enslaved by the said pieces of papers is the only definite thing in my life, and finally sleep. All the hard work and all the hours spent in a day everyday every week for pieces of papers.
Maybe I am not meant to wind up with anyone. Betrothed only to the fictional characters from the books that have perpetually filled the void in me. Forever longing for the presence of another being who will never ever be. Forced to be complacent with only the pleasures of good reads.
Whenever I’d lost something then, I used to tell myself to go back to the days before I even had it and pretend like I never had it. How I was completely fine without it, before I got it. I never realized how wrong I was to have reacted in that manner until I lost the single most important piece of my life, my Best Friend. I can never go back to the three years before I found him and pretend that I never had him. My life up until three years ago meant nothing. Rocky was the one who put it into perspective. But three years, way too short of a life for a nine-live being. How could you have used up all your nine lives in just three years? I’m in no stage of grief. I’m just grieving. I don’t know how to go about my life anymore. I weep at the sight of every corner of the house. Your favorite spots in particular. I miss you so much my heart hurts, Best Friend.
Money, the root cause of your problems.
Money, the solution to your problems.
Money, the root cause of your illnesses.
Money, the medicine that treats your illnesses.
Money, the death of your hopes and dreams.
Money, the death of humanity and empathy.
Money, the death of you.
Your alarm’s blaring
you get dressed
your breakfast is regurgitated
your tummy flutters and
tears collect in your eyes.
Your deceased heart
is still hoping for it’s
ultimate true calling
to be financially answered.
I used to only have great things to say about you. Beautiful words such as incandescent, becoming, and charming crossed my mind at the thought of you. Now I can only think of rather unfavorable terms like uncertain, inconsistent, and clueless. It saddens me to finally see the kind of person you’ve always been and not the person who was beautifully painted in my heart.
You come and go
as you please
that you are.
What is it
Who is it