Loneliness

 I see it when it comes to my room, with the wind or with the first sunlight over my unopened eyes every morning, I hear it with the solitary footsteps of mine and with the rustle of changing my dress, brushing my teeth, the toilet flush, the singleness of the sensation of warm water over my body. The toaster screams its name, yet I know that the names are not there, only the chants and bustle of everyday street, the smoke coming out of my gut after that cigarette burns itself into oblivion, the grinding of selfhood into the eclipse of dim lights and papers in the office, between the sighs of despair in each waking moment, I see it, I see it in the mirrors of doom, I see it well enough, to soak into it and suffocate myself. To 16 hours of disconnected being and 8 hours of escape, to standing on the road and not being able to decide which way to go, to find a population of us who are exactly the same and still yearn for something special, to solidify my blood running within my veins with books of disaster, to sleep and hope to sleep for the coming thirty or forty years, to fossilise the demons of everyday chance and the illusion of it, to remember each day as a whole continuous painful subjugation of self, I see it, I see every inch of it onto myself. The cross is too great to bear, and the simplicity of love or happiness or living was never strong enough to hold on to it, but I knew all that beforehand, I opened my eyes each morning to sunlight and wind, and the toaster smiled joyfully.