there is nothing further for me here and i know it. hours spent staring at the tiny pixels of unintelligence and contemplating the agony of my apathetic lethargy are years of my life that are thown away, not to be recycled. the silence is heavy with the sound of technology and misery. they whisper behind me quitely while i drive my nails into my hands and grit my teeth. with every thick and bloody whisper in the hoarse and tobacco ridden voices i drift a little further into my thoughts of prose and music. they have no idea what is on my mind and i hope to God they never do. while i think of ways to express myself they think of ways to make it through the days. they cannot envision what my mind holds but to me they are transparent. they don't understand how clear and unforgivingly insolent their motives and ideas are. with their mouths hanging open their happiness hinges on their next meal at steakountry and they lick their dry cracked wantingly haunting lips in the most undelightful way. these thin walls, these tin roofs, these tiny floors, these shiny faces. they strike out at me most everyday with sickeningly friendliness and reach out to me in a unfamiliar way. other days they ignore me stubbornly without cause and stare intensely into the back of my head with those beady naive eyes. or eyes pushed back so far into the sockets that it cannot be told what colour they are. i turn to return the stare and let my back crick with a sickening crack. there is no intelligence behind those beady eyes. there are no words of wisdom behind those dry lips and open mouths and pink tongues. nasty tongues that refuse to stop licking those bleeding dry lips even as they stand before others in presentation. the mouth screams into the microphone, shocking the others and making them wish they had stayed at home that wednesday, so they would not have to watch that monster, with the open mouth and sunken beady eyes and the hoarse screaming tobacco ridden voice that refuses to lower. after a moment they adjust but after ten minutes when its over they look down to find that they never stopped gripping the seat cushion or their children whom they grabbed in fear and protection. protection from that open mouth with the hoarse screaming voice and beady eyes in their ancient sockets and the cracked lips and slow tongue and lousianian accent and poor grammar and low intelligence. they know he cannot hurt them from the podium but there they are still clutching their children with that fear born instinct. the instinct to protect their babies from this monster.
so there they sit behind me this morning in this tiny dreary stuffy building, and there they will sit for two years collecting dust and books. there they sit, one licking his chapped lips and one staring as hard as she can. there they sit, the anti-thesis of the assumption that age breeds creatures of wisdom. fifty years has only bred these monsters, these creatures, these things.
and i am so very much afraid.