A long line out.

From my nowhere chair I sit stunned by lack.  Not of tangible things but of the ones that make a person a person.  The edges have been worn off the sides and there is no good or bad any more, just a long line with very few peaks or valleys.  To tread the line is a daily occurrence now, an unfamiliar routine becoming dangerously common.

For all that I have been, there is no suffering, there is no true joy.  Only the long line, smooth and infinite.  There is nothing to see, and yet everything is upon its surface.    All this internalized, rarely given to another, and even then, in limited form.  There is no proper conveyance for such a feeling.  Words seem pointless.

Turning to my favorite distraction, I seek humor in all things.  It is my gift and a curse that I can no longer truly enjoy as flawlessly as I am able to deliver it.  I suppose it is a gift because I am able to give it, not mine to receive.  What I receive in agony I distill to what is true and use it to do good.  The toll is large but the rewards are my punishment for a good deed.  For all the laughs serve to remind me of what I can not truly be, and they give me an undesirable feast upon which I must gorge.

Eat, distill, reward, suffer.  All on the long line out.

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