I should be sleeping.

One of my greatest enemies is creeping dissatisfaction.
Another is self obsession.
Life happens outside the sphere of my own feelings
I just somehow forget it.

Just a few in seven billion are even aware that I exist.

I don't think I have treated many of them with as much dignity as maybe
they deserved.

That is, beyond the usual take off yours and take off mine.

I've always wondered about the true intentions of the people around me
ever since I threw nightly molly parties and
everyone rolled and rolled.
Eventually I had no real idea if they would have come back so often
if not for
the drugs.

One night Brutus took a picture of me in silhouette on top of a train.
I loved that night.
We would get high and walk the tracks to the concrete plant
sitting on top of the cars and just breathing in our carefree abandon
never minding the night ending soon
soon to be strung out at dawn
waiting for someone to make the move to leave.

I'm depressed,
stupidly nostalgic for something empty,
wishing I could reclaim something that ended long ago.

I should be sleeping.

Instead I'm marinating in a dust pile of feelings
wondering when I will stop being so dramatic
but secretly hoping
that I never
will.