The Lethargist’s Confession

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This is my world,
this rather small space I wander in, where I revisit the same places again and again, never venturing too far, and even then held here by gravity and the air only I can breathe.

I am not overly enamored with my influence (what little I may have on whomever or whatever I encounter) so I prefer to err on the side of humility and therefore be constantly surprised when I am informed that I did indeed in some small way move a butterfly’s wings.

I am not bored, though lately I have found that I am often anxious, as if there is yet something important I have forgotten to do. I awake in the morning reaching for the tattered remnants of some unremembered dream.

I think of those in the shattered hulks of bombed out buildings who would, I am sure, prefer the monotony of my existence, while here, so starved are we for drama, that we create our own rather than have to empathize with those who are suffering.

This tech-satiated life conspires to keep me numb, fat, and above all entertained, where relaxing is synonymous with sitting in front of the screen. I bow before the glow like some drug-starved addict who is never filled up no matter how fast the advertised time of the downloads. God forbid I rest my eyes and mind for even a moment, look into the eyes of my lover, or step from the virtual to feel the evening breeze on my radiated cheeks.

Outside I shield my eyes and my conscience from that low slung searing circle we call a sun.

On the sidewalk, the blind man walks his dog.

Or is it the other way around?

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