Anything that takes effort I back away from. Everything is overwhelming. Breathing is overwhelming. These persistent thoughts are overwhelming. I can’t talk. I’m like an inanimate object, a cubicle clown at an abandoned arcade from the 80s. The wind rolls through the electric canals, trash strewn on the currents, dust from the desert mountains, memories a half of a century old drift and haunt. The kiddie rides are all stoic now, no quarters to feed them, nothing to pop them back to life. The popcorn place is defunct, a boarded-up shell, but the café across the stream still thunders. There are the sounds of distant voices celebrating life with genuine joy, the clattering of dishes, the fall of the water outside, the crack of limbs in old trees, the ice cream stereo shop around the corner buzzes with sonic vibrato.

I’m a windmill with hidden purpose. I don’t know what to do to occupy the spaces of a day. Meaning feels meaningless. The memories of an Amsterdam panic attack. I’m embarrassed to be myself at times for I am utterly flawed. I suppose I shouldn’t expect so much gratitude from the world. My stomach flips at the thought of life and living it. Another heartbeat passes and what good have I done? I shouldn’t expect myself to fill every gap of time with a chore. But I’m so conditioned by this sick society to always be productive. Give of yourself. Give. Give. Give. At every moment of every day. Drain yourself for the good of the company, the good of the rich. My time has been a commodity for someone else to exploit for their gain, not mine. The Generational Trap. Born into it. Live in it. Death by depletion.

I surrender to the sun. Empty and nauseous. Dizzying heights in downtown Chicago. A pretty escape beckons. The lake out there a diamond blue. An apartment of glass, silent in the afternoon. A couch, a table, a pile of bullets. Too late now, you’re already three-quarters through. A piece of artwork on the wall is called Scattering. The city below is crawling like a machine. Everyone has somewhere to go. But why? Stand still in front of a window in a high-rise apartment building and look down instead. Stop moving. Stop panting. Stop ripping your soul out… Now what do I do?

By

Aaron Echoes August

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