(no subject)

I can sit here and dream, can't I?
Sit and smoke my endless cigarettes, as the cat
pushes his questing head under my hand. Today, I
dreamt that I went away where no one knew my
face. I was anonymous and blank as an empty
painted wall. The thought brings me joy.

The smallest things bedeck me with annoyance.
The mindless drone of the television. The
hinged whine of the people who find it amusing.
Rancid coughing from the other room gains a
pained wince. Vacuous cooing over baby pictures
three desks over at my cog-in-the-machine office.
My fingers curl into tight, white fists. All I
want is to scream. They are mundane, banal.
It makes my head pound.

Could this be the source of my never-ending
headaches?

I want the open road under me. I need the wind
in my face. I have got to run from this place
before I shrink even further into my pity-hole
than I already am. I want away from the
repetition.

Repetition.
Repetition.
Repetition.
Repetition.