I have created a prison. The incredible solitude this prison provides is so dulling to my senses, I've actually grown used to it. I'm sitting in a highly uncomfortable chair that reeks of the B.O. produced by both my job I despise and the grass shavings covering me from having mowed the lawn. The lawn I mowed over 5 hours ago.

What am I doing? But wait, another distraction. A mirror! A god damned mirror is the cause of everything gone bad this past 30 seconds! I have an underlying body image issue, yet my room is doubled in size by two giant mirrored closet doors! I cannot avoid being disgusted by my body, when my body is always right there in front of me!

The simple solution would be to take them down. And you cannot disagree with simple solutions. Here's another: I tend to never like my hairstyle. Solution: always have a short haircut. So simple, but so effective.

But the crux of my inspiration in writing this is the question I so quickly posed and abandoned not more than 9 lines of text ago. What am I doing? Solution: nothing. I am doing nothing! A stranger from my past suggested I must've become too comfortable, and they may be right, for although I recently wanted to "change" my ways, at this point in time I could care less. I do not like the expression "I could give a rat's ass", because I do not have a rat's ass in my possession. Who the hell does? Until you can show me a rats ass in your pocket, or your file cabinet, why use such a ridiculous metaphor?

I cannot possibly be comfortable. Perhaps too damn accepting of everything. I am at such peace with everything I make a dead man look like he's on crack. And no, I have no clue what such an image looks like, nor what it entails in its absurd existence. A grave robber might. I don't know any. What am I talking about?

I went outside on my (my mother's) deck a little while. I looked up into the night sky and attempted to leap a tall building in a single bound. I may have left the ground, but I gained no altitude. I don't have the capability to fly regardless of what my recurring dream may inspire me to believe. It was worth however, a second, more meaningful attempt.

Long story short I'm sitting here trapped. A movie springs to mind, a movie of ages gone by that goes by the name of "The exterminating angel". I would never have seen such a film lest it were my friend Bradi's desire to include me in such an ordeal. It is Spanish with English subtitles, black and white, and obscure as your foot. If your foot is not obscure, you can't be helped. So sorry. The guests of a house party cannot find it within themselves to leave a room. Their rescuers cannot find it in themselves to enter the room. Now that is something that needs to be seen to be believed.

I liken this somehow to my inability to go about taking action. I am lifeless. I am no longer what is in. I am old news. I am obsolete. I am a shell of a man. If these walls could speak, they would have more depth than I.

And again, there is a mirror. I am not jesting when I tell you, I look to the mirror and gauge my reflection's reaction to the words I 'splay here before ye. Most times it approves, and I continue. But I will let you in on a secret. The above line following my mention of a grave robber, was originally:  Why did I type this? It had changed when my reflection commented upon it.

But the walls could care less. They may be painted off-white and have nicks and bruises from age, but they pale in comparison to walls psychotically positioned, multiplied by glass. Walls that nothing physical can demolish. Walls that don't hinder movement.

Walls that hinder action.