Like Saccharin

More wine, more ignorant bliss, the weekend passes in a tumult of nausea and you watch yourself from two feet over, amazed at the car crash in action. By Sunday, you cannot sleep but you cannot leave the bed, you starve but cannot eat, you toss between fits of apathy and waves of angst, it is not pretty. The number of toothbrushes in the bathroom has changed. The plants on the windowsill have gone wild; it is a jungle, and you no longer need to look straight into the lives of your neighbors across the street.

I tire of writing in the first person, but I cannot be with others for more than little moments at a time or I implode, wither, and then what else is there to say. I imagine you understand. A giant tome of Pushcart-prized short stories simmers through my line of vision. They all describe the world, they all speak of third person and scenery details, but I pick them apart ruthlessly to give myself a break. It doesn't help. Outside, it rains: a welcome rain, kind. The screams of amusement park visitors fly across the water. The wind must be just right. Tomorrow is Monday, again.

The world keeps spinning.
What are you going to do about it?