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Even the air seems weighted now.
Every breath a calculated process of humanity; no longer simple. Not now.
This is depression.
The far off disruption of vehicles can be heard through the haze. Sun sets. Street lights come on; and fade. My vision focuses only on the dreams playing through my head, ignoring the task at hand.
Since when does nostalgia kill people.
Black skies overhead; chattering of the schizophrenic who cannot simply take his drink and be. What is his life…when many moments, minutes, are wasted puzzling over trivial soda. His confusion makes me angry, that he is so utterly insane. That he is so far away from reality. His pain is only mind-deep.
My remarks are a suffering whimper, barely heard by my own ears.
Welcome back to slavery, sweeping, mopping, pushing around dirt. Never cleaning anything. Cleaning is the improper term. Screech of a door, muffled laughter. More citizens from the human trashcan.
Ignorance, disrespect, falling from their mouths. Every word seems weighted now, so empathetic it’s killing me. Their words are making me cry.
The rain isn’t falling, and it’s making me cry. Skies look muggy, and you can feel the air shift when you move. Sweat dripping off every body part, dissipating into the atmosphere. Another piece of matter that’s forgotten.
Being naïve is a privilege it seems. Pessimistic and cynical; dislike for my occupation as I keep on moving dirt. Music a seemingly simple soundtrack to the small duties I perform. Crackling voices soon to be forgotten. Every note piercing someone’s heart with all the emotion in the world. The artist will never know. That someone is me.
The space is empty again, laughter from the parked metal outside. Black skies still, grey with light pollution. Glowing orange, burn holes in the sky, street lamps blur my vision.
And it’s a pain we can’t see the stars anymore.
A vague comment about a mess, sends anger spiralling down the spine. Words nagging at every pore. Empathy is tearing at my bones.
Is this being on edge?