My days aren't noteworthy,
Sorry to disappoint.
But they simply aren't,
Even the good ones.
My days are filled with a grind to finish an EMT course and a satisfaction every time I get something done,
Then going to work and training a new hire, who I actually find talking to fun,
And coming home to play games for an hour or so, or until my beloved decides we're done,
And then petting and cuddling with my cat, who's learning to let me be on my phone without demanding my attention, and still trying to find his favorite spot by my side.
My days are boring, filled with prep quizzes and mock exams,
Studying and assuring myself of my prowess.
Preparing for a life of maybe-just-a-bit-more-something,
And praying that I won't stay in this vague sense of not-noteworthy-and-quite-boring.
My good days are the ones where I can laugh, where I meet someone new whose absurdity makes me grin, even if his is in the form of ironically using brainrot to make people laugh.
But I don't really want to be his friend. Not a close one at least.
I have no real desire to form any bond like that.
I thought I did at first, to fill the hole in my heart, but instead
I find myself guarding it.
Every time I hurt, it sings,
It sings with memory of joy and happiness,
Saying "You're hurting now, but think of what could have been if you went the other way. Would you still be hurting? Would it have been easier?"
And in a way, it resigns and comforts me instead of disquieting me, depending on the day,
Assuring me that this is the fate I chose.
This is the fate I will live with.
Even if maybe, just maybe, my life may have been more exciting, or filled with more laughter,
I made my choice.
Anyways, all I seem to bring is melancholy anyway.
My depressing attitude, my ocean, is so determined to sweep others beneath the waves and into the riptide.
More and more I think of moments that should have been happy, and were, but were turned sour by my mood,
By my inability to lighten up.
And so my choice is probably the best one for me, if I really think about it.
But, for now, I have a warm cat against my chest with me who's trying to sleep,
And a head that aches from overthinking,
And eyes that sting from blue light.
Goodnight.
YOU ARE READING
Air Conditioning
PoesíaVent poetry It's frowned upon putting your heart on your sleeve with such a weak code like a three number pin. For both of our sakes I hope you aren't the type to spend your time digging your claws in and working to decode someone else's words an...
