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Walter Mitty and His Makeshift Orchestra
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Post Graduation Oblivion
I lied about my major to a stranger on the bus.
I'm pretty sure I'm aging poorly and I surely peaked too early.
I'm about to greet my bitter end, craving the estrogen and minimum comfort. But I can't afford it.
My head's in Oregon, my feet in California.
I prefer my chest pains over my daily headaches.
I've outgrown most that I've known, and I'm scared to reminisce, so I believe in nothing, and never felt this uncertain of anything in my life.
All panic aside, I actually kinda like it.
My canvas is the Void. I paint meaning on the meaningless all damn day.
But that gets lonesome, and therein lies your right to occupy my bedroom. I promise that I won't make trouble I'll just listen. Tell me about your family, tell me your role models, and tell me how your caught up working towards the wrong goals.
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And tell me do you notice this blistering bliss apparent in our thoughts?
Maybe you don't, but I do.
And after it I'm a sucker feeling sorry for everyone.
Cheer up Paradise.
I won't let it drain the passion from our lives.
Quit your pity sighs.
Oh I've got this funny feeling we'll be fine.
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