word choice

boredom.

No—this is deeper than that,

stronger, more debilitating.

ennui.

Yea, that's it.

That's the word I'm searching for as I lay in bed, nursing the last glass

of last night's wine

at high noon.

ennui.

The affliction that afflicts me,

the one that feels terminal because—

look at me, look at what I'm doing

nothing.

Because look at me—

look at the way my eyes glaze behind Coke bottle lenses,

behind consumable vices,

behind them all a mind that cannot rest

in a head that won't lift from the pillows.

ennui.

The ailment with the force of a mighty river thrown off its ancient course by men who thought they knew better.

and they wonder why it rebels

against the levees and canals

erected out of spite,

constructed to contain and manage.

My ennui spills over,

fills the stemware that I clumsily kiss,

carves into my psyche,

threatens to anchor me in dissatisfaction.

But I finish my nectar,

watch the glass shatter against the dirty tile,

and lift my head.

ennui.

Yea, that's it—that's the word I was looking for.