For a Bowl of Stew

I could not tell you the day of the week, nor the time of day; I could not say if the sun should or should not be out; I work when I have to work, and when I have not to work I find I am lost. I go for meals alone in a world where people drink in unison, where glasses are raised to lips as one, and companions laugh and chatter amongst friends. My afternoons are empty, I go to the movies and watch empty films in empty rows, couples sitting elsewhere lest their bliss be hexed, their arms entwined, their heads on shoulders. I leave and unhappiness is a small dog that trots after me, tied to my wrist by a string, who sits at my heels each day waiting for the lights to change. I earn banknote after banknote doleing out doses of magical narcotics to those who have to work for a living, to those who clock in and clock out routinely. They should have the sadness, they should be crippled by this melancholy, and I, the untethered, the unhindered, the come-and-go-as-I-please one, I should be the free one, the unburdened one. And yet as I bleed out these card tricks, those trapped in these nine to five's, in these mortgage plans and repayment schedules, those people they watch and stroke the arms of their loved ones, they smile as their child's eyes light up in delight, and as I give them these moments I realise how much I have set aside, how much I am without. And at that moment, I am fading in their very sight.