A lil' of spark won't ya please

I’m not happy and I’m not sad; not hopeful nor cynical. I’m not desirous of anything really. Work isn’t hard and the relationship isn’t hard, although I know that there will be a lot of work to be done this weekend and that there’s still a lot of relationship that needs working. I’m not tired, not really excited, not inspired, not lonely, not bored, not passionate – I’m really not. I’m living dazed but not confused. I’ve been de-clawed a and de-veined and content in the retirement home of my youth. But I am in need of all these things; I need a wrench to be thrown in this automated schedule, a wall placed in front of my blindness, a virus in this code – water in my lungs. I need a jolt of something to get me going again. I’ve noticed that I’m so comfortable in the ordinary and the repetition of my life. It’s hard to change, cause I forget once the day begins, with it’s limitless process – it’s the minutiae of everyday life that kills memories. Each morning, I grab my socks first (black) and a clean pair of drawers from the armoire, then place them next to the bathroom sink. I brush my teeth for two minutes cause that’s when the sonicare stops spinning. Then take off the t-shirt and throw it in the hamper before everything else. Step in the shower. Shampoo. Lather, rinse. Softsoap. Squirt. Lather. Left arm, right arm, hands and fingers, left side, pecs and abdominals, right side, the shoulders, right leg, left leg, feet, the back of my neck, both ears and then the arms again. Dry myself, but not completely. That comes when I step out of the shower. Then it’s the boxers/briefs, grab a white tee, then a shirt (pick a blue or white, striped or solid) then pants (some derivation of gray) then always always, clean my ears before I shave – and always shave before brushing my hair, and then it’s to the kitchen where I then pick up my key, then wallet, then lighter and cigs, and then my phone. Black shoes. Door to door, home to the office, 17 minutes flat. Lunch at 11:45 to beat the rush. Sandwich. My favorite moments are when I get to leave work before the streets are empty; then I can walk home, left hand in pocket, a slow song playing on the headphones, right hand flicking a cigarette – I and my thoughts, alone together, without the jostle and demands of others. Often, I get to wallow, or I allow myself to step over the edge of normalcy and reason and fall into despondency. Not that I have a desire to be sad, but it’s that the streets of New York in November are so conducive to introspection and thoughts of gray. And it’s at these times that I feel glimmers of living again, because sadness is unbalanced – because with sadness it’s so easy to keep falling into the extreme darkness. It takes some degree of mental toughness to assume the Icarian flight towards genuine happiness. But either or, it’s the sincere deepening of feelings, the richness of experience-soaked thoughts, the poles of want and abandoned emotions, of vivid dreams and excited justifications that appeal to me. Only because they come so far and few between now. I can get excited about a transaction, but it’s not in the same league as scaling a mountain and reveling in the freedom of being 23. I’m not at all unhappy about my career or my current life. I am, however, conflicted when it comes to my sensibilities.