False time that does not ring
I rant on of things still unseen.
It passes in this stillness,
I so ready to fade and forget.
All of the noise, the chaos and the pulse
of day after day filled with useless banter,
conversation, small talk about the weather and when our essay is due,
work– box after box stacked–
and the drying of dishes.
I am so tired of it all,
domination of my higher senses,
let go, I tell myself, but nowadays I am only clinging tighter.
And clinging to what?
Holding on to what?
To the very things I despise,
to what has become a tainted atmosphere of the art of living.
They whisper and murmur never giving way to the beauty of quiet,
speak of what?
Such useless things;
So disconnected in what they call this age of connection.
The echoes fill my head.
I try to curl up outside of it all,
there is no room to breathe,
everywhere I look there are people
cluttering every crevice of my life.
This selfish speech.
I need space.
I just need space
away from it all,
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”