and that was the weak that was

I get off of work, and no one has called my cell.

I get home, and no one has called my phone.

I get online, and no one has emailed me.

My friends are at home, and my roommate isn't.

I read people's blogs, just to try to get a little human contact.

Everyone is pretty miserable in blog world. So much pain, so much loneliness.

Over and over I read of this, and think, Life can sure be miserable.

I stop reading, I can't take it anymore. I get up from the computer. I look around the room. Nobody is there. I am alone.

The wine calls my name.

I pour a glass and sit. I try to read, but the silence is deafening.

I go back to the net. More misery. I begin to hate. It pours out of me. Why, God, why? What's worse is, we are the priveleged. The one's who all others supposedly look up to. The one's who "have it all". Is this all it is?

Hate. Misery. Loneliness.

I just want to see someone in love.

I switch to porn.

At least there, it is closer to love. I go to the movies, more real. I search out the ones where they seem to feel. Where it isn't so produced that it seems a show. I want to find people who might actually be feeling good.

If I don't it is sad. If I do, I feel sad that this is where I go to find it.

The second glass screams my name.

The clock tells me, go ahead. You have nothing better to do.

I feel like bursting outdoors, just running down the street.

But there is nothing there. Nothing here. Nothing there.

The self loathing hits half way through glass number two.

Some how, self loathing is a proficient writer.

I purge through the keyboard. Spill out the hate like a teenager's first drinking binge.

I finish, publish, look at the words. Used to be, I would look at the words and their power would fade. They became unreal just by their existence.

Now, they mock me.

As I look at them, they laugh at me, how ineffectual the reading turns out to be.

I close the page.

I seek something else, anything else, out.

Nothing is there, too.

In the morning, I read the words again.

Nobody has responded.

The words haven't changed.

These days, I lay in bed awake for over an hour, because I know the words are the same. I don't want to get up. I don't want to read them again. I try desperately to fall back into the dream I can only partially remember. Fall back into the part where the woman says it will all be better. But I know that woman. In real life, I know her. She would never say that. Maybe that is why, after I wake, I can never fall back there.

I get up.

Nobody has responded. Nobody has written. Nobody has called. Nobody is home.

The words are the same.

Fifteen hours later, it begins again.