Two Empty Windows

Exploring an existential crisis

My identity is a lie--
neurons bridging neurons,
electric patterns
defining,
shaping,
changing the world
into a third-rate perception.
I'm trapped in my head
while my fingers explore
tangible things.

I'm struggling to find meaning
in a clock chiming,
a draft from the air conditioning that makes my joints ache,
a crash from the next room
and a child's voice crying for his mother,
a man lying draped over the bed
breathing deep and slow,
his wedding band glinting under lamplight.

This effort to be happy has been continuous
and I don't even care anymore
who I really am--
a slowly rotting mass of flesh
encased in bone.

So I take the pills.
I am tired of trying on my own. Today
I'd give up everything
to care about anything.
Anything.
Even slough off the old personality,
a delicate web of skin,
invisible threads breaking as it glides
in a soft smile. Wicked
and enduring
at the black edge of my consciousness.