A man sips at his coffee to rest his hand from his writing and to make sure his beverage doesn't go cold while he toils.
He misses his "inelegant conversations".
He hates all of these sleepwalkers-- zombies.
They rub off on him.
They don't see the boxes they put themselves in.
"There is no fucking box," he scoffs to himself.
He acts as them--
No agenda. No reality. No life to speak of.
Is this the trap of the city?
Is this how lives are caged and consumed?
He thinks so.
He rests his pen again as his coffee continues to cool.
The flow of energy in the Universe never stops or slows.
His mind wanders.
He doesn't see or care where it goes.
It escapes him.
Even though his eyes never shut,
he forgets reality and walks down a path in his own mind blindly.
--Impulsively.
He's afraid--
or at least he is when he watches where he goes.
So they remain shut and he remains blind.
He doesn't need to look at "them"
He sips at his coffee once more, nodding to the flow of reality before he goes to lose himself again.
Why is he so lonely?
Why does he choose to play in to his own pity?
What keeps him so disconnected from reality?
...From himself?
He blames so many things, yet he knows it is all just a facade.
A wall of color he creates.
He doesn't know why he can't find intimacy.
He doesn't know why he spits out lies on his wits.
He doesn't know why he consumes the energies of others around him as a glutton.
He cannot remember the last time someone said they loved him.
Or the last time he cared to listen.
He cannot remember what family is.
Or why they left him.
He cannot remember what he loves in life.
Or in himself.
Again he tips his cup to the cadence of time.
The more it empties its warmth into him, the faster the remaining body cools.
The coffee, lukewarm now:
he can't help but contemplate the average kinetic energy of his soul.
He's always cold.
He dreams of the beach while bathing:
The warm water and sun.
He curls up in blankets:
Dreaming of lovers past as if they warmed his body and soul in ways they never did.
His coffee grows cold.
It no longer offers any warmth.
He consumes it knowing where his soul lies.
Perhaps he will fall asleep again and walk in city crowds.
Perhaps he will stop in for another cup another day not knowing why.
Automatic writing.