i can't make heads or [tales] of it.

I wish I was well versed in the correct names of construction equipment. There is this giant beast of a thing that I can only just see over the fence across the street. It is bent toward the ground, pounding through what seems to be the first layer of bedrock. I can feel every pulse in my seat... in the floor... the whole building feels like it is part of this construction. The speakers are working again and on one hand, I'm thankful for the mild distraction from the underground movement... but dear God, if it isn't Motown Wednesday. Please understand, I love some Motown and classic R&B. But, when you are subjected to a playlist of 50 songs (and with that number, I am being incredibly optimistic)... and it plays over and over and over at least once (often twice) a week... well... I could go at least 3 months without hearing it, and probably be a healthier person for it. I cannot change the station, and it is what it is, as they say.

And I find myself still absolutely content to notice the little details of the mundane... The bend of the tube in the ink pen on my desk. The way the sun illuminates it to a lighter shade of gray. Wondering when peppermints became spirals as opposed to the striped edges of my childhood. How much I envy the people on a morning run through the neighborhood.

How the shades over the window remind me of an accordion.

How my grandmother had one, and I used to cause an avalanche to get to it...

Anything to escape the discomfort in my body and the turmoil in my brain.

It's an hour into this day...

and there are miles to go.

And I'd like to go home... back to bed.

but, maybe not.

There's an addict in the other room who feels betrayed by the removal of our enabling hands.

And if all goes to plan, there are thirty days of awkward left... maybe less. no more.

There's a blonde asleep on the couch who wants to be friends and I feel like a judgmental cow for my disinterest. Every time she talks to me, I wonder if she's drunk or drugged. Everything in slow motion... and she doesn't even seem to know it's happening. Roommate on the love-seat. Marley's domain stolen, so she curled up next to Parker on the bed. And If I could disappear next to them, it would be ideal.

but you can't always get what you want.

All I feel from my friends is distance.

and my love is tormented by demons.

and for everyone, it is easiest to come down on me.

i am misunderstood.

some disagree.

just wondering what the hell i've done.

i can't even distract you with a meaningless story.

and i can't make out the reasons or rhymes.

i have no idea how i got here and how it came to this.

i feel like a tourist in my own life.

like there is no place to really let my guard down.

no place to cry without upsetting things...

causing worry

receiving lecture.

i've never been good at math.

and i'm asked to take a test on algebraic equations and calculus.

my eyes are glazing over just like they did in school.

and the tears come because i want to understand but can't.

and i'm lonely.

lonely as can be.