Psychology

There is nothing else in the room. Only a pencil on a table, a rug under a table, and maybe my spirit under that. I'm sitting here, sweating my ass off and all I can think about is, where am I going after this? In every sense of the question, where am I going after this? And in every sense of the word this, where am I going after this? No amount of clinical trials, double blinded studies, questionnaires, surveys, nothing, could determine the answer. The answer, some say, comes in the form of conformity. However, they are wrong. No amount of conformity could sweep me along in the river of everyone else and take me somewhere. I could follow the line straight to the oval office and I'd still be nobody. Set me down in Milgram's chair and shock me, or tell me to shock someone, it doesn't matter, in the end we all end up in the same place, and we'll probably all end up shocked. There's a beautiful woman (as there always is) and she's looking right through me. Straight through to the next nobody sitting nowhere in the not chair next to not me. And with every breath she takes I can feel that much more oxygen leave the room. The air getting thinner and thinner here in this ground level Everest. An insurmountable mountain that I can not only not climb, but I probably couldn't even manage to tumble down it head first into powdery white, silent oblivion. But it is not snowing outside right now. It is a beautiful day and every bit of it is wasted on me. It is like two people trying to avoid meeting each other, even though they know it is inevitable. I sit on a bench and look, my scowl deep and my sunglasses on, and there the weather sits, looking back at me, daring me to enjoy it, sending a squirrel to talk to me, but I ignore it. And there in the distance is her, I swear it's her even though none of it makes a lick of sense. But I know it's her and she is sick but I'm sicker, and she is lick but I'm liquor. One hundred gallons deep in my thoughts where even a headshake won't shake her mirage. And I look into her eyes and I ask, "is that you?" but I don't even stick around for the answer, I'm out of here before she can leave me first. And before you know it, it's just me again, that blank stare, that gapping grease hole of a mouth, various other holes poked into my otherwise useless face. Fighting against this time-warping clone machine. I see the exact copy of everyone I used to know just older, more experienced, less accomplished, more skin, less substance, more words, less to say.