Nick Moore | Puddle

I am a nap waiting to happen, pushing back ten other things that need to happen but will never. Every time I write something on a list or tell myself I will do it, I drill further into delusion.

I live in a hole at the center of the world. My bed is the center of the hole I live in, and from the center it is hardest to climb out. The roads I take to school have ruts in them to ensure that I don’t stray from the path I always take.

In the ruts and at the bottom of the hole I live in, it is wet. The water is stagnant, full of viruses and fungi and bacteria that grow in the tepid moisture. No worms live to aerate the damp soil because the water kills all in its presence.

I don’t die, however. I live somehow in the filthy stagnant water out of which nothing escapes. My aspirations swim like tadpoles in the pools, dying slowly in the absence of oxygen.

While I live in my hole, I eat delusion. Crackers and other lifeless foods bear marks claiming health: multigrain, organic, natural. The bright packaging advertises a vibrant quality that my life will never have, overfed with the contents.

I consume the happiest of entertainment: upbeat television hosts speaking in a seemingly candid way to successful and humble celebrities. Pundits resisting laughter as they tell jokes. All I feel is wasted.

I waste my time with naps. My talent with television shows. My opportunity with microwavable meals.

I waste myself.

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