The Daily Grind (Is Grinding Us Down to Nothing)

by Charlotte E. Wilde

The desolation of boredom is a perilous place to lose one’s self. I’ve always lived this life in wild stages of passion and abandon thrown into various venues or people, but I can’t say I ever found what I was looking for. The finitude of these emotions always wins the day. Flashes of brilliance fade– the perfect word, the perfect phrase, the perfect patch of sun under which to raise the perfect glass of wine to the perfect melancholy– these are but shots of reckless happiness injected in an otherwise deadened arm.

I just want to feel something.

I sat at a café today staring into a black-eyed coffee listening to the kid next to me screech. His mother was endlessly apologetic. I nodded my forgiveness and what she probably took as insincerity was actually milk-frothed jealousy. Haven’t we all just wanted to wail like that instead of simmering in our discontent? Time, and life, and jobs and aspirations’ temptation teach us to cap these emotions until each zombified person we meet becomes a prayer:  Liberate me. Eat me alive. Make me scream.

Agony, terror, ecstasy… I don’t care anymore.

I just want to feel something.