Habits

The more time I spend inside, the more I realize how completely pathetic it all is. Late at night I lay next to my fish tank and stare for hours. I wait until the first glimpses of light subtly define the branches of the trees outside my window, and then watch as the moon falls grandly back into the horizon. I know that soon the sun will peak over in a smoldering red and shine her disdainful light through my curtains. These things no longer fill me with awe. As the day begins, I remind myself of what once was whimsical, and it dawns on me again that nothing is poetic anymore. Not me or the trees, or even the moon in all her majesty, and all that remains are scattered thoughts that fail to come to fruition. My mind is a relentless static, a dimension of words without places. On mornings like these I wallow in the knowledge that I can no longer capture beauty like I once did.