Looking for answers at bottom of empty glasses.

Closing shift

I love, and hate my job. I can do anything, nobody cares, but that’s just it. Nobody cares.

Why am I wasting away? I am certain that the younger self would have ran away if he had known what my future has actually become. Do I want to cook, or do I want to write? I must sound like another copy of the typical burned out young adult. Sadly, I presently am.


I don’t feel welcome in my own home anymore. I never want to come back, but I have nowhere else to go. I hate sleeping with her, I hate what she has become. We don’t talk, yet we keep this lie alive and well. I could use a drink, or maybe a half dozen. 


I used to think I was fairly good at writing, but some time went by, and I realized that I had nothing to write about. Nothing was worth my time, and I didn’t bother with trying. Now that things are crumbling around me, the chipping paint that once covered the facade that was my daily life is showing me what once was beyond those walls, nothing. I long being free, but I am absolutely addicted to the life that I have now, the comfort of not having to worry about my happiness tomorrow. The mighty river had been dammed up, reduced to a small controlled trickle to allow for excess water to drain so no overflow, no flood would happen. I can’t break free of the life I have, yet it is what the majority of my mind desires. I only have small periods of time to escape it, the time between today and tomorrow while you sleep.

Simple Things

I didn’t want to do this, I didn’t want to put all of my thoughts and feelings on paper, or in cyberspace, but who would care if I did. There is no point for me to hide what I am feeling, I know someone out there would understand. I do have an orange notebook, and I do write in it, but I don’t expect people to want to read it. I’m going through some hard times, this is all I have.