The Table

The hard table provides no relief from the day. I simply sit here as the world runs by through my head, and I realize that there really isn't any hope, any future that will count. I have already wasted too many hours this same way, with my head on this hard gray table. It is for this moment my own, but before now it has been a rest for countless more. It is a graveyard, a cemetery for the minds and hopes and aspirations of the youth--of tomorrow. Mine is the newest headstone, but by no means does it stand alone; many cracked and crumbling granite markers are all that remain of numerous youthful existences. There is no hope, this resting place will simply continue to consume students without a fight, without a chance to survive, until every plot is filled and a newer, more efficient means of subduing the future opens and begins to fill. It continues and expands and grows and evolves, and all while I sit here doing nothing, allowing all of it. But what am I supposed to do? I am simply another victim, there is no fight, no hero here, I have now powers or special attributes that the others before me have lacked. I am simply aware of it, which makes the process that much more painful and difficult to endure. There is nothing I can do to fight it, my purpose seems simply to know it and record it.

Peace,
Justin