I used to be a part of something. I was a son, a brother, a husband, a father. I was a boss, a teammate, a player, a prince. And I was a friend, a confidante, a lover and a mensch. Now I am nothing, or at least, none of those things. I am just a man, a lonely, heartbroken, broken man without a family, a lover or a friend. Such is the lot of the persistent misanthrope.
I don't like it but I can't change it, either. And that's because I won't be shallow and simply put in an appearance. It must be real or there can be nothing. But, I bite off much more than any man can chew mainly because I think I can, like the little engine, and I want to please those who offer me their attention and love. In the end, I fail them all and then there were none.
So, here I sit, acutely aware that this is one night that I really shouldn't be alone. This is one of those dreary, icy, soggy evenings which ambience only serves to intensify my extreme sadness. In my new apartment, I have every light blazing in a futile attempt to ward off the darkest demons. But I sense them lurking, tearing a hole in my chest with their collective will. "Fall down, fall down . . . ," they whisper in hisses. This time, I am thinking, I should give in, give up and let them take me. Why not? Patterns are just that and at this moment, I would be missed for only a short time and then, forgotten.
But, there's no one to call, no one to touch. And it is, apparently, all my fault.