Nothing Special

To go from being a person's whole world,
to being less than nothing
is nothing special.

It happens all the time.

Even in the folds of the browned pages,
the ones I turn over to escape
from this place.

It happens on the flickering reel,
the images jumpy and scattered
with age.

The story repeats itself, playing back again
because we never learn
or never seem to, anyway.



It's a strange sensation, sort of like
your chest was once full,
warm and tight.

There was knowledge and safety.

But when it's on the other side of the typefont,
the other side of the reel,
somehow it's odd.

Different.

Worse.

There is no happy ending to expect,
thirty minutes down the line, or
fifty pages later.

And so,
we trudge on, nothing special,
because we can do nothing more.