i d l e n e s s
Anything worth writing about?
I have just realized
I spent so much time
Striving upwards, all the while drowning in mediocrity,
Encumbered with vestiges of former ambition,
Vertiginously devoid of regret,
Bauhaus in my head.
Is reminiscence my second nature?
Introspection, loftily and haughtily casting its glance
Across the unfortunate nearby.
Words slip out of memory.
I stopped reading,
I stopped writing.
I stopped dreaming big
A long time ago.
Or so it seems.
Now, just mere existence,
Magnified to a lifelong proportion.
With nothing better to be looking forward to.
Being written, this casual note
Nosedives into the caverns of my psyche.
Writing as a therapy?
The only thing that seems to be being sold these days are courses.
If only I started an expensive refresher on casuistry!
Would've been a someone.
Why don't you stop your verbal diarrhea, Mr.Verbosity?
Written elsewhere, best left not written at all.