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Apathy submitted 2009.09.24 01:45 AM by Symbolic_ viewed 2209 times

((Disclaimer Fiction))

Drown me in your sea of opiates. Leave your thoughts at the door, and throw away all your empty promises. I log on to an away friends list, I awaken to an out and about reality. The world around me is busy in some sort of hustle and bustle, some flow of things that I used to enjoy. A routine that sucks you in and calls you friend. A routine I put down one day because it no longer interests me.

I turn on the television to find three channels playing everybody loves Raymond. Three channels are playing the Golden Girls, and everything else is either uninteresting or as bland as it's rerun cousin. I stare at the phone, but every call is a telemarketer. I want to call you and tell you how I'm not happy, I want to call you and tell you how miserable I am. But more than likely it'll just be fodder for your friends to poke fun of me about because I am just that pathetic.

At work I am a zombie, I stare out into a crowd of people and nothing at all. I get asked a question, but answer back as swiftly as possible so as to not have any sort of follow up. There are a thousand and one conversations going on at any given moment, each one as excruciating as the last, and each one with references to a hit T.V. show, or the most current popular movie. A series of laughs as the punch line is said three or four times, and then a blank stare in my direction because I just want to work. I just want to put in my nine to five, punch out, buy my opiate of choice and drift away into a mind altering coma. The customers are the worst of them all. Sometimes five or six times a day, the same joke told in the same fashion. A personality forged from I love Lucy reruns, and Saturday Night Live skits from days of yore. I feel like saying "Your water cooler must miss you on the weekends." Or when they complain as profusely as a sailor "Forgive me for your gluttony."

My acquiesce reality, is my own doing and making. In reality, I'm not looking at someone to point my finger at. If anything I can't be bothered by the thought. Most of the time I'm not even sure of my own reality, and think I'm just humoring myself that I actually had a personality or half a brain at some point. I spent too much time on auto pilot, a few too many trips to another world, and a few too many missed opportunities I let slip by just because I feel like I already lost.

It sometimes feels like the outside world likes to poke you in the chest and tell you what's what. That the outside world demands obedience and demands your happiness so that you fit and mold perfectly into place. It's not that I don't want it, it's just that I don't feel it at times. I don't feel like I fit in at times, and don't feel like I have anything of use to say or add. Some people can't understand, because for them happiness comes naturally. It's not something they have to work at or forge with a series of chemical shifting substances.

To them I say count your lucky stars, and hold onto them for dear life.

rating: 11

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