The soundtrack to my life is a droning noise,
A distant whir of machinery that would persist even miles away from civilization,
In the woods somewhere, or a desert,
When only nature and myself are present.
The noise disturbs me;
It makes me wonder if I, too, am mechanical.
Perhaps I am,
For when I think of you after all this has happened,
My heart still beats,
My eyes still blink.
But this isn't moving on.
I can't form new experiences, create new words.
I can only sit here and let the drone of my internal gears hum on.
You're off somewhere with music and lights and beautiful girls and I can't bear the thought of it all making you happier than I ever could, a constant carnival that will never break down and never grow old, something I alone could never have been for you.
At least here it's quiet.
At least here I can know myself better.
People think there's value in that.
People think there's value in knowing yourself and appreciating your own beauty
And spending an hour in front of the mirror
And dressing up
And going out
And getting drunk
And looking pretty to find someone pretty to take you home.
It's a waste of my time when the love of my life is miles away and happy without me.
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