Our Time Is Running Out

"Is that your car out there?"
"The black one? Yeah, that's my baby."
"You should be out, you know, at the beach or somethin'. How come you're not out?"

Because I can't bear to see the ocean, that's why. I can't bear to leave the house most of the time. I'm happy. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy; I just live without the energy to live, if that makes any sense. A certain weight of 'health' looms over me quite a bit. Everyone wonders about my health. Seems like sometimes it's the only thing they care about... but it's not all that easy. It's quiet, like old cigarette smoke stains you thought were just stains but actually are reminders of scent that filter down from the ceiling years after you've quit, reminding you of the home you've lost in no longer having something dangling from your lips. It's something you used to hold and wave around to make a point, to hide behind when you were sitting alone waiting for a taxi that's two hours late and you didn't want to look so alone. A certain level of visual cool that has escaped your grasp with its release... a disposeable finger that slowly eroded with tiresome dispose and dictated the lines of your face to crease a little faster. It's about both want and need. A crutch, an invisible artificial limb without the obvious stares that come from fearsome wonder, that's what it feels like. It's below, under your feet, and making your toes ache with every step but not enough to change your shoes or even look down. Once you learn that it's not the shoes, it's your feet, there's a new awakening that occurs and separates the toes you once smashed together to look like something they weren't; to conform to a fit that wasn't your natural one. To warp with the pressure of time.

To give in... that is freedom.