A Handheld Version of What You Aren't

When I awake from sleep with little more to bring me purpose than the need for Aspirin I begin to worry for my belief in longevity; for my will to continue; for my investment in this misery.

You say goodbye to cigarettes, coffee, and hard alcohol thinking the asceticism will cleanse your confusion. You hope in vain that giving up a number of vices will reveal a number of triumphs. You look longingly at the dying woman next to you selfishly wishing you were in her place. And you go quiet, so completely quiet, not even mice can hear you.

That's when the lurid halogen of anyone else's successes sheds painfully sharp steel blue light on your cracked veneer. There is no one to see you. No one to hear you. No one to give you comfort.

There is only the sharp steel blue light to remind of how pointless you really are; how finite you'll always be; how foolish it is to continue.

Everything in me hurts. Even my thoughts.
And I wish I had the courage to quell them all, those thoughts, those pains.
But I have no gun, I have no pills, I have no rope.
Only weakness.

And weakness doesn't completely silence, only quiets.