Grammar-phoning

Is this really, really all there is? Sitting in an apartment, looking around at various people. Here I am, in a strange room, strange people. I don't know them but they are all the same. They are people with a history but that history has led all to the same place; and so, we sit, gazing around us. Look at this wasteland. Everyone must smoke something to feel allright. It's a cigar, a cigarette, its a joint, some heroin. We must have some intoxicants to get through this, and here we see the youth is wasting away... the potential, bleeding dry on the floor and mixing with the sweat and stains from years of occupation, years of desolation and endless hoping of a change, an escape.

Who, these people, are you? What is a grammatical error but a systematic mis-step in a sea of words which tumble forth for chaos and imperfection- and we see, this imperfection is all anyone would like any more. Trying to be perfect takes too much effort, says he, too much time and thinking-- but what have we when we begin to forget to think? So everyone says, so everyone says- we think not and want not- we think not and have not- we think not and suffer not, for to avoid thinking is to avoid the problem. The only question is, can the problem be avoided any longer. Is there a point, when, when everyone does it- it really does make it ok? If I go into every living room, every back room and I see someone lighting up does that make it okay for me to do it, too? Does it make me or they any less of a waste of earth, waste of potential?

All in good fun, we say; all in good spirits. We need to get away from this horrible place, we need to go somewhere where living is worthwhile. Is there somewhere like that, I wonder, I ponder? Can there be a way out of this short of helping oneself to an early grave? Surely that would evoke great messes of pointlessness but is there some way to live without all the mess of smoking for an "escape." Can there be something better to use for an answer. Do you not think everyone wants to escape? The only ones happy with existence are those who have the world, and those who are too ignorant to know what the world is. There might be a few other buffoons happy with existence, too, but that simply makes them what they are- fools.

This apartment, these people, are repeated, over and over.. years and countless people are wasted and done, sitting here for days and nights, hours and weeks that pile into years. They might find someone to love them and there live on in squalor and drugs and the liquor bottles lining the table, the splashes of unmentionables coating every surface; an unclean life and the thoughts of what could have been if only they realized it. But those who realize it, do they really accomplish so very much with their fruitful lives of pursuing the arts, the language, the world at large? Is there really, truly such thing as happiness? This has been roasting in my brain for approximately a week since I saw "Pursuit of Happyness" and I wondered at this. Rabbiting, as Alex of A Clockwork Orange calls it--- does it get one anywhere? Does honesty and good behaviour get you somewhere beyond that pat on the back and the satisfaction of knowing you aren't what you have seen in that apartment, sitting and glazing at perfect strangers and knowing what life there was?

Why does it have to be this way? Why does the world just seem to be en endless sea of these people sitting around their apartments smoking something; lining up the liquor; drowning all in a hopeless attempt to forget something else? That's all there is these days, and then some of these people, with effrontery tainting their names and their tongues, can say they are being different, they are being unique. You, of all people; you, who said you would not be like the rest, have succumbed to these poisons just like the rest and if only the world would let me cry, I could weep just for you having fallen from that place so far removed from the rest of the vermin. Why did you find, too, that this could be your escape; you, who I thought would know better than the rest that there never is an escape.

Would someone find something to believe in? Would someone get their life in a direction that isn't down and out?