That You Choke

I spend the evening cleaning out my sock drawer. Inspect items of clothing too old and tattered to wear, fold the pieces that pass inspection into neat piles and return them to their designated spots, knowing full well that I'm only trying to clear out the cob webs of my tired soul and failing miserably. At least the neatly arranged drawers offer some sense of accomplishment.

There's an autobiography on my nightstand, a successful actress who was young in the 60s; she spends her days battling misogyny and eating disorders, channels her inner soul in exchange for fame, envelops herself entirely in passionate obsessions, and you know the root to all success lies in such dedication. I can't remember the last time I buried myself in anything with passion; instead, I'm buried in apathy, and it leaves a far more bitter taste in my mouth.

Perhaps there is something else we should be doing. Perhaps we've gotten it all wrong and this was not the be-all, end-all of our endeavors. Perhaps I should have moved to Australia years ago, spent my days  harvesting mangoes and my evenings drinking beer on the beach, caring little of ephemeral promises and profound literal ambitions. What use is there to scratch and claw against my exhausted skin, to scream myself bloody in the vacuum void of urban indifference? I don't belong in your clique; I don't know why I've fought so hard to get in.

A lifetime seems too long
to be suffering.