Out of Coffee

Woke up even earlier than the already obscene hour I normally arise. Part of my condition. Some call it depression, some call it being human, I call it more coffee.

You're still sleeping, as is your wont. Dreaming, probably, of something better than this. We always manage to end up in the most desolate and neglected places. It's a physical thing but also spiritual.

But something comes to fill the void. Best if we choose what that thing is, although often it is beyond our control no matter what we pretend.

Still, we pretend anyway. The illusion of control is what matters. We come to these desolate and neglected places only to then escape them. Or to prove to ourselves that we could escape them if only we wanted to.

Why don't we want to? Why do we prefer to stay here and stare at the void? Maybe we know that wherever we go, the void follows. It's not out there, it's in here.

Sounds like a bunch of nonsense, right? Well, it probably is.

Meanwhile, here's more coffee. Sleeping and dreaming sound better than this. But there's much to be said for being human, out of control, and full of nonsense.

Consider the alternatives. Or, if you value your sanity, don't.

We could drive somewhere. I could wake you up and just go. We'd end up in a place. Of course, we're already in a place. We'd be there either way. One place or another. Like that old Blondie song, only I've gotten the lyrics wrong again.

Words are hard. They're supposed to help us communicate with one another. Occasionally they succeed, but often we say too much or too little. Or the wrong things.

Some call it depression, some call it being human. Oh look, I'm out of coffee.