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letra de no drive - culture

the soles of his feet became bruised from constant pacing
back and forth from the hallway to the kitchen, a peak in the fridge and back again
the tile had been cruel to his feet and the phone to his ear
it was 4 o’ clock and he was finally off the telephone and began to ready himself for departure
the alarm had been set for 11 in the morning but no feet touched the floor until a quarter to 2
the past three weeks had been like this, unproductive, long…

school was finished and he was unemployed
bills meant nowhere near as much as they should, but concern and stress were far from scarce
what troubled him the most perhaps, was his inability to create
he’d been told often that he was a talented individual, at times he even believed it
but lately there had been no drive, he was uninspired for his surroundings had made themselves grey and dull in his presence

he was insensitive for love had left him and he was confident of its unwillingness to return
he was unmotivated for his necessities had been masquerading themselves as options
it was may, rainy, silent and hungry

music for the first time bored him and he refused to test that boredom
he would have read the books that he had set aside for summer had his eyes and his mind been willing and capable of concentrating on even the t-tles, let alone the contents
but they instead shifted quickly and randomly from wall to wall, from thought to thought

he missed her, although he wasn’t sure which her he missed
he needed her, although he doubted that she existed
each week called itself a day and he felt 50 as he sluggishly crept each of his 20 year old legs into his pants
they were light sort of army green, but the poor lighting in his apartment gave the illusion of a much darker shade
the socks he wore were the same as yesterday’s as was the shirt
he stood there in the middle of his room staring blankly at his bed reflecting on a parallel that his friend had drawn earlier, between the process of making one’s bed in the morning only to undo it the same night and striving to achieve something that will inadvertently and surely be destroyed

he made it nonetheless

he scratched his head and discovered dandruff, wiped his chin found ungroomed stubble
he would have been ashamed of himself if he had the energy
he would have hung himself had he even cared
but instead life had reached such a point of unimportance that it wasn’t even worth ending
his window to the world has his cordless phone, as it was his means of contacting those that consistently pretended to care about him and his means to pretend to care about them
he was happy they were there, it was a satisfying system

all the shades in every window in the flat had been drawn and he could barely find his shoes in the darkness that should not exist in one’s apartment at 4 o’ clock in the afternoon
they were tanned converse low-tops, cracked on the sides, torn in the back, crooked tongue and reeking of cat p-ss
he was convinced they still did the job but they’d retired behind his back riddled with holes and promises of disease

his breath smelled, his tooth was broken, he would have m-st-rb-t-d but he had l-st at nothing
he became slow, pale, greasy

the light hurt his eyes as he stepped outside and took longer than usual to adjust
the mailbox downstairs offered nothing but an electric bill and a letter to some lady named lesley
he imagined that she was a previous owner of his apartment who had failed to notify the post office of a changed address
letters in her name came frequently and he read them all
he wanted to meet her and maybe spit on her
he resented her for getting his hopes up whenever he’d open his mailbox
he’d considered killing her

he made his way to his car, his tires looked low, half-caps were missing
his car was grey and he felt that was symbolic but wished he was smart enough to know just what it symbolized
he crawled in and shut the door finally muting that godd-mn bluejay
the interior smelled of cat p-ss as well and was littered with c-ssettes and receipts
he leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel, wanted to throw up but wasn’t sure why
at 10:05 in the p.m. he awoke still in his car having not made it out of the parking lot
he wasn’t upset by this for he had forgotten where exactly he intended to go in the first place
he tasted sleep in his mouth and felt the imprint of the wheel on his right temple
as he peeled off his head from the plastic
locking up his car he ascended to his apartment where he resumed his slumber fully clothed

the next morning his alarm rang loudly, promptly at 11 o’ clock
but no feet touched the ground until 3:30 in the afternoon
he needed her badly

- culture

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