Coffee On Weekdays

Step Five

A cubicle feels less isolated than my own head.

Intolerable Epiphanies in Brain Storms: By Daniel Howell

Everywhere I look it's the same, the same, the same.

There's no fire, there's no ice.

And if you squint hard enough you just might see

Nothing.

Nothing to find, nothing to find, except for me:

No one.

I'm trapped in my own head, trapped in a daydream, trapped with a man in a suit telling me to let

Go, let go, I want to let go. I can't

Breathe, not here, not ever, and there is no darkness, no, this is worse than that it's

Empty.

White, white, nothing.

It's blank, like my world; it is my world. The computer paper, please stop. There is no music except for your

Voice, like peace resting in that flowerbed your grandma used to tend to, her hands all covered in dirt and love

For you, because that was her occupation, her drive.

And she wanted you to have a good one too,

What a shame--that

No one cares.

I wish there was an onomatopoeia to fill

the space.

I just want to end it,

These reoccurring nothing's, because I'm chained.

The walls are closing in, and I swear if I could fill the nothing I would

With cement, so it would stay forever, and be hard to chip away.

I wish I was dying. I wish I was really dying.

Maybe I am, maybe I'm already dead.

Nothing matters because, who are we?

And life has no meaning, which is why it's beautiful, right? Or is that what we say because we're not intellectual enough to understand the real reason we live is so that

We can die.