I'm looking at myself, at my reflection, only the person I'm staring at is not me. Where once sat a silly grin, now rests a mocking smirk, a bitter reminder of my own personal daydream. There is a grim glint in my dark eyes which holds no reflection, as if all the light just passes through me and all I'm left with is a pitch black sense of humour and the arrogance and wit to pass it off as cynicism. Maybe that's just the water, maybe it's me...
I sit now, sick of the self-mockery scrawled across my face, like this post I have yet to finish, a testament to how one can hate how they think and yet not change the thoughts. I lower the cup and stare at the ripples it makes in my reflection. The image doesn't change, it's still me sitting in a cup of water looking up grimly at myself wondering when I'm going to care. It hasn't happened yet, I'm starting to think it won't.
I lower the cup letting it rest on my lap, leaving my hand as a ward against it spilling. I want nothing more than to let it tip and watch as my world turns over, I want to care again but the cup won't let me, my reflection won't let me...
And it doesn't tip, not even a little, my fingers hold it in place without strength, they know that my world is the way I have chosen it to be. They remind me that everything was my choice even my punishment, my own personal purgatory. They hold the cup in place like I hold myself, imprisoned in my own mind, a faint flicker of yesterday.
I pull the cup up to my lips and drink the drought I have made to the last drop.
I wonder if it'd be better if I didn't wake, I wonder if my dreams would still be bright, I think they wouldn't, but I'm almost tempted to find out.
Yet tomorrow I will wake and I will stare into my cup and carry on my lifeless life wondering if I will live again or if I'll remain a memory.
Needless to say the end. Goodnight.
