it's the everyday, the mundane, the humdrum
that will slowly kill you. it's the putting up curtain poles, burning cereal boxes
and taking off doors that will finally fuel the anxiety
feed the depression.
it's not being able to smile at your daughter, your eighteen
month old daughter
as she runs towards you with her little arms held out
and
kissing
the
cold
lips
of the woman you love
as you convince yourself
your mind has finally shattered.
even
so
it is saturday night
there is nothing to do
and that's what will kill you
(have no doubt)
and if there's
a god
and if there's
a devil
then I'm somewhere in the middle
and
it's
limbo
all day
everyday
always.
there was never really a plan—
at least not from our side
anyway.
just get born
dribble
exist and work
and pay off
debt
and get old
dribble.
and some people are happy
with
that
and some people
are
not
and some people
I suppose don't
really think
about
it
all that often.
and good
for
them.
before sea levels replace icecaps
before industry replaced community
before terror replaced terrorism.
we were nothing once
before summertime flood death
before poultry armageddon
before all of these homicidal world leaders.
we were nothing once
before computers replaced conversation
before robots replaced civilisation
before downloading destroyed music
as we know it.
we were nothing once
before omnipresent surveillance cameras
before artisitic censorship
before islam incited hatred.
believe it or not
we were nothing once
just man fucking woman
woman fucking man—
it was clearly
never enough.
Ross Leese lives in the North of England. He is a terrible genius and is approaching his thirties somewhat uncomfortably.