Ruminate and listless

He asks me again what I'm doing, and I tell him I don't know. It's not the truth, but it's close.

I stand by the window, and I wonder if I'm becoming my mother. As I look out at our yard, the one he earned by going to work every day and being the best at what he does, I can't help feeling like I've stolen something from him.

In reality, I've taken something from myself.

I pace, and I smoke, and the dog watches with his brow furrowed. He's worried too, because he knows I'm not what I should be. He sees me, the real me, the one trapped within this apathetic skin.

"I USED TO BURN WITH PASSION!" I scream into the fireplace.

The dog lies down on the far side of the room, watching me. I stub the cigarette out in an ashtray I hide from him. I hate animals and their stupid extra senses.