Corner booth, all alone feeling kind of blue, as the earbuds stream Portishead into a groggy skull. Slowly sipping warm chai as the day flies by, nurturing pain, as chill rain drums against the windowsill and the world outside grows dark dark darker… tired eyes reflected in glass starin' back. collecting thoughts like I used to collect slugger cards when I was young. Lookin back I remember how I'd scatter them about on the floor in a tangled heap then "order" and re-order and re-order them by position, year, team... then once I got bored, which I eventually did, I'd abruptly shove them back into an old cigar box for another month to rot and grow dust.
It's the same thing now cept I'm older and wiser and I organize thoughts instead of cards, and I tend to think with newfound wisdom comes newfound problems… a whole meticulous host of 'em. Sorting and re-sorting. Ordering and Re-ordering. And my disorder now has a name, it seems, OCD. The damned spot just won't rub out. And I'm tired. Every night. Every day. As time flies by I find I grow more disenchanted, more disgusted, more distant, disheartened, demanding.....and the D-list goes on and on. Same song with the same hooks I sang all last year but in a slightly different key, a different set of notes.
Oh and I'm still broke.
And I think the more I think - the more I unthink. Unraveling like a kite spool into a chaotic spill of gossip, turmoil, and knots.
