Rumor Has It

The world is so beautiful, lately, it glitters and gleams for my attention: the sharp lines of familiar buildings, the soft waves of greenstreets in bloom, my brain fires off synapses left and right for art that remains uncreated. It builds around me like a tidal wave preparing to unleash its wild currents but I spend my days catatonic on the bed. I took out my camera to at least remember how the city primps and preens, but I found it filled with images of simpler times, when life was beautiful through no effort at all and the rest of our life lay at our feet. Is this all there is now? I don't recognize my face in the mirror. Or perhaps I recognize it all too well, and that's the problem. Everything is different, now. How can I possibly pretend I'm the same?