Memoirs of an Insomniac: 11

Here I sit, the moment for wishing long past. I know not where this road goes, but I will follow it until the end. Street lights, car horns, warnings of danger and distractions from the mundane. My mind wanders like a lazy cloud. My desk bears the burden of empty cans and bottles, and my chair lacks padding, apparently. The window stays open these days, but my eyes seem closed to the obvious. Please let it not be so. Comfortable, I'm not. I can't be. I won't let myself be. I seek discomfort that I may know what it is to be without. My appetite ran away from me, although I don't spend as much money on food anymore. Both Goraxypox and I tried the cookies I made and found them lacking. But two score others thought they were amazing. How much better could they have been? People express disbelief or surprise when I do something that they can't do. It's a lack of application, I do believe. And yet, the cans and bottles still rest on my desk. Washed windows willingly wear wondrous woods waiting while wind wastes women. My body is sticky. So sticky. Sweat and grease and restaurant grossness. Do I like serving? I serve no matter what I do. I serve in life, and I will probably serve in death. Music comforts my soul, and water washes the grossness away. Until the next day. The next dawn. The next storm cloud, the next bump, the next week of work.

The Charge of the Light Brigade - Painting by Mike Western

This painting seems to fit.

Tired and confused in a world of wonders.
TPP