What a Riot

That blasted little freak that inhabits some run-down, grotesquely of a basement won't talk to me. He might have moved on, might not have. I really don't know. No job (last I heard), no motivation, no initiative to strike forth into the underbelly of society with a knife and gut it. Won't take what he wants from everyone else, just from the people around him. Won't accept help when the crushing sensation of a planet on ones shoulders begins to weigh in as the heavyweight when he's the lightweight. Can't see past the frustration of existence -- no logic. No time for thought or pondering the greater emphasis actions have on surroundings and people and places and time.

Time.

I have no time. I have none for myself. But everyone has time for me. Calling, phoning, emailing, demanding. Attention whores all. They seek my eyes like insects to a bug-zapper. They want my focus, my mind. Weaseling in, wresting my thoughts. Jarred, unsettled, I bring down my wrath, however impotent. It does nothing. I still have no time except to feel nervous and anxious and wonder at things that need wondering and things that don't. About a past that wasn't and that is and about people and who they are and aren't and about places where I want to be but can't be and where I will be but don't want to be.

To many states of being that I must assume. Take the roll, take my hand. Lead me away to someplace nasty and hateful and horrible and empty. Follow the leader down the rabbit hole into the frivolous reality of wonderland. The only wonder, I wonder, is that there is nothing but desolation. What a riot.