We are young people, seated around an empty table waiting for infinity and beyond and
infinity and beyond. There are millions of us. There are four of us.
And this table is so big, this table is so empty.
An alarm goes off in the background, but no one cracks and we are still as stone. (What are we?)
The ringing is loud and sad and it sounds just like us, it sounds just like every one of us.
I am watching her and I am trying to help her but she is going to self destruct, she is going to lose it. The side of her lip is swollen from the fact that life isn't fair and because she just happens to be the best pessimist. And you can see it because she is crying to the sun and pulling you by the ears.
"I'm a bruise! I'm a bruise! Look at me, I am bruised." But she is broken and ungrateful and an awful friend.
And she is going to kill herself.
I am watching him as well and he is sitting in front of her. His eyes are blank in her direction and he doesn't care about anything in the universe. He is so cold he melts into himself; into a falling, friendless tree. And he still won't move, he still won't try and stand up or stop laughing all the time.
He is fading into a smoke of cloud and he is the one who tossed that cigarette. He is the one who decided to go to bed at eight in the morning.
And he is so un-careful and care-less.
I am watching his doppelganger, across from me. He is the lousy one and he knows it. He is infected; diseased with a tumour in his soul and a virus in his lazy eye. His lids are droopy and his mouth is turning to cotton because he talks too much but he knows it. He knows that he could be better, that he could have been better but he refuses because. Just because.
He is the spoiled poison in your apartment building that cannot stay faithful to save half the hemisphere or clean his room.
And he is sick and he knows it.
And then I look away and I am watching myself.
And I am
I am broken and care-less and rotting and ungrateful. I am falling and sick and I am losing myself.
I am a bruised, crying cigarette with disease in my soul and self destruction in my left eye.
Ugly friend, unfaithful chatterbox. Hot, cold giver-upper.
I will poison you. I will kill myself. I will fade into smoke.
And the alarm is still going off and it sounds too much like us, it sounds too much like me.
(Who am I?)
But there are young people, seated around an empty table waiting for something, mostly nothing.
There are four of us. There are millions of us.