the sounds: the hum and groan of the tired laptop, the obedient ticking of the mounted clock above the muted television, and the desperate silent begging of the two goldfish in the large glass bowl on the cluttered table; making trickling noises as they open and close their mouths on the surface of their water though there is nothing there to eat, anymore.
The smells: stale sweat from the old teeshirt hanging limply on my frame, the traces of yet another left over dinner, old vegetable soup. A bouquet of night sented stock attempting feebly to elbow its way to the front of the crowd, but I only catch a glimpse of her sweet and soothing perfume.
The sights: An empty kitchen at night time. orange peels litter the counter by the sink, two pots of soup sit on a dirty stove, the ladles resting on their rims. dirty cups and slowly rotting fruit sit on the cutting board, a fruit fly their only company. Four cupboard doors open, my mother's pet peeve. (Good thing she isn't here.) The tv, muted, on the family channel after an unsuccessful surf through the hundred something possibilities. Two hanging lights cased in red glass give the room an eerie glow remminiscent to the glare of taillights, reminding me that everyone I loved was off on the road, and I was left here.
The feelings: arms resting on the cold granite counter, goosebumps raised on my arms. the heels of my hands on the silver laptop keyboard, slightly warm and humming from the day's work. Something had my stomach in a knot, and it wasn't hunger, but I felt that too. A fatigue headache had set in as the clock continued to tick on and on into the night.
The emotions: Dead and empty as the house I was in, I was unable to lift myself from the sludge I myself had created. Call it what you want, bipolar, depression, or just spineless self wallowing, I was as hollow and alone as a pumpkin on the first of november. And I couldn't take it. Mind numbing silence and time stretching loneliness were my poisons, and I drink them almost greedily. I can't help it, I'm addicted.
The smells: stale sweat from the old teeshirt hanging limply on my frame, the traces of yet another left over dinner, old vegetable soup. A bouquet of night sented stock attempting feebly to elbow its way to the front of the crowd, but I only catch a glimpse of her sweet and soothing perfume.
The sights: An empty kitchen at night time. orange peels litter the counter by the sink, two pots of soup sit on a dirty stove, the ladles resting on their rims. dirty cups and slowly rotting fruit sit on the cutting board, a fruit fly their only company. Four cupboard doors open, my mother's pet peeve. (Good thing she isn't here.) The tv, muted, on the family channel after an unsuccessful surf through the hundred something possibilities. Two hanging lights cased in red glass give the room an eerie glow remminiscent to the glare of taillights, reminding me that everyone I loved was off on the road, and I was left here.
The feelings: arms resting on the cold granite counter, goosebumps raised on my arms. the heels of my hands on the silver laptop keyboard, slightly warm and humming from the day's work. Something had my stomach in a knot, and it wasn't hunger, but I felt that too. A fatigue headache had set in as the clock continued to tick on and on into the night.
The emotions: Dead and empty as the house I was in, I was unable to lift myself from the sludge I myself had created. Call it what you want, bipolar, depression, or just spineless self wallowing, I was as hollow and alone as a pumpkin on the first of november. And I couldn't take it. Mind numbing silence and time stretching loneliness were my poisons, and I drink them almost greedily. I can't help it, I'm addicted.
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