Poem: The Writer's Exhaust.
Looking out from the window of a tenth floor apartment, the city below is beautiful. Lights of green, red, and white are splattered across the cityscape. And all of it is complemented by buildings which loom far above my head. Portland is beautiful at night.
But I witness it all from the view of a spectator— never charging in to experience what this place has to offer. I am isolated and I sometimes feel content. Tonight however, I am tired. Not from FOMO, but as I sit here in this chair— a thought lingers in my mind.
I have been up for far too long today, and my head is beginning to unravel. The dishwasher behind me is making a creaking noise, and cracks are breaking into the bags under my eyes. Why do I feel like this?
The Writer’s Exhaust
Staring out windows unshielded from blinds,
And a cat shaped glass of tea rests nearby.
Shadows sneaking, craving both of my minds–
Each shrinking away, ceasing by my sigh.
I’m a writer, and I feel myself lost.
The sun is now gone, the stars lack delight.
My brain left frozen– one more line crossed;
A windows PC voidant of its light.
The night has reined me in, to push down–
All that I am, straight to tomorrow’s frown.
My eyes begin to shutter, starting with a blinking motion, and then allowing the darkness to solidify. And I find myself alone, away from my partner— or anyone else I might care about. A chamber of thinking, longing, processing, and self-deprecation.
But as quickly as it all starts, solemn rays of orange and yellow light bring me back. I find myself laying next to the one I love, and the exhaustion isn’t as bad as it once was.
The city itself feels joyous, full of life. And though I know it won’t last, I cling onto that moment of happiness. Because when smiles are in short supply, you better latch onto every one you can find. All these reasons to continue existing.