BEWARE THE DOG
There’s this man comes off his balcony every morning without fail to collect his mail & pick up the paper the messenger sent flying his way. he reads some of the top headlines & heads out back to tend his garden. seems like everyone has something they do as if from memory every morning. i wake up & instead of the morning paper, i read a chapter of a book & listen to my playlist — all TeamSesh instrumentals (Drew the Architect, Cat Soup & Drip-133) — on repeat. i write the usual things, about girls & drugs & smoking cigarettes on rooftops & drinking coffee from the corner store down the street. it’s all played out. life’s played out. One long drawn out AA meeting. the old man walks on over & throws on the golf channel. he’s always watching golf, dressed like he’s ready for 18 holes & church. the girls down at the church can make even the most devout Christian boy weak in the knees. Hell, even the grandpa’s weak in the knees, mostly for other reasons. the books i read all try too hard to say something. Meanwhile, i’m trying to write the book on nothing. In the same vein, getting high leaves you without a care in the world for hours on end. i don’t need any new friends & i don’t need any new hobbies. i’m starting to sink comfortably & complacently into my depression. drugs would help, but they come & go. at least i got a pack of smokes & a thought that maybe all anyone ever needed was a good playlist, an iced out outfit they’re wearing, a little vice to take the edge off & one good thought running through their heads. i promise you, depression isn’t too bad once you sink into it. It’s okay to be sad.
It’s not your fault, son… it’s not your fault.
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