Finding a Way Out

I'm sitting in Starbucks where the line is long.  People are highly desirous of their coffee.  Better to face the workday caffeinated.  I'm in agreement, but I also know that I'll potentially feel like crap later if I partake now.  All I can think about is how coffee pushes the body to feel stressed, and that stress might be good, feel good, because it wakes you up, but then, you know, depletes you too, so then I'll be trapped in the wall of a dead brain, which I can't stand.

Things -- brain activity? -- aren't exactly deadened right now, but they aren't vivid either.  There was a time when everything seemed vivid, when life was like sucking on a psychedelic lollipop of energy and intriguing ambiguity.  I'm not willing to trade these days for those days of extreme highs and lows, though I don't sit and stare as much anymore.  Perhaps that's also because I live in a much larger city.  Not sure.  Brain activity, perception, filtering, what have you, it is flat, flat and neutral., grey tone, neither bass or treble heavy.  That's the way to see music (italics on "the"), to hear life, etc., to find what it is that matters, quotes, that thing being primal and important and vital, so I used to think.

Now I think life happens here on the margins.  I'm trying to get something done before work, after work, before it all changes, all goes away, before I settle into whatever it is that I used to be disgusted with, before I accept what it is that predominates, god forbid, whatever that is.  Perhaps this is an admission that I've accepted it already, that I'm here, you know, in immovable space, much much smaller than I used to be, perhaps better for it, I'm not sure.  I know there are places left for animated affectation. I know they're waiting.  I'm just figuring out what they look like now that they're not distorted.  I'm over four months sober.  Sounds so small when I write it out like that and felt so much bigger before I wrote it.  I'm not thinking about how many more months there are to go.  I think that'd be a bit of an admission that I'm waiting for death.  I don't want to wait for death.  I don't want to blindly pine for that which cannot be, but I must make sure that it cannot be first, before I give up.  Whatever it is, wherever I sit.