Carousel Man

I’m alone.

No amount of patience or poise or panic can alter that fact. I’m exhausted from the fight and I’ve begun to understand how life can simply grind a man down. I’m so utterly dissatisfied with the effort of those around me and often wish that I simply had ten more of myself.

I lead.

I suffer the lumps and swallow the insults. I’m the peacekeeper. I’m the guy who holds chaos at bay. I’m the god damn Rock of Gibraltar. I put that on myself, all of it. I do this because I can carry it. At least, that’s the mantra I chant to an audience of one.

My thoughts are a frenzy of ecstasy and agony, my heart a congealed mess of scar tissue and spit. I have precious little trust to give and what I can muster is routinely blotted by paranoia, insecurity and a fundamental failure of my brain to simply go silent.

No one is coming to save me — not a girl, not a dead loved one, not God. If I could only focus, if I possessed the power to halt the ticking of the clock — well, then I believe I could accomplish something worthy of ink.

The lonliness is destroying me and I can’t manufacture a problem with the mass to keep me distracted. This isn’t a test, it’s torture in slow-motion — like a glacier cleaving the Earth beneath it.

These words are useless.

Words seen by blind eyes and heard by deaf ears.

I can no longer discern between catharsis and confusion. It’s all a blur of color and lies, false promises and abuse.

Sleep, at least there’s sleep.

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