How does it feel? The question is posed on an indefinite, intermittent loop, rolling with the time of day and people I come across. Anymore, fine is insignificant. i go to work only to maintain continuity. I work in a state of complete decay. More robotic than the machinery I use, or that use me at this point. I am far past despair, entering a form that can only be described as having Pavlovian origins. The public school system never really gave me the privilege of knowing Pavlov, he did. The man who bettered me. Guided me. Though a year apart, it felt more times than not like he was ancient, imparting wisdom to me when the situation arose. Often times, I took our friendship for granted, going about my life as though perfection finally found its place among the tragedies of my life. In retrospect it should have felt unnatural, this idea that I could spend so much time with my significant other, reaping the benefits of my aptitude for attachment, and the moments where she was working or otherwise preoccupied I could easily (for the most part) find myself in his company, enjoying whatever tastes arose or simply discussing the politics of existing. He found me a job. In that respect he helped house me and escape the self-imposed perdition that was my father. Always a smile between us with not so much as a squabble arising.
"That will be 32.50 Mr. Barlowe." I handed her two twenties and told her to keep the change. Not like I wanted it anyway. My thoughts were elsewhere.
No comments:
Post a Comment