December 1, 1997


I’m through with words and meaningless faces that look before me with bitter lies. Tonight my body shakes, my eyes lack the power of sight, and my once charming voice finds pleasure in practicing the art of silence. I’m sick of second guessing and being led astray into the crowded room of half-wits and rejects that now share a common interest with me. The resulting thought always remains to be that one superficial word that crosses my lips so often…whatever. I’m tired of trendy persona suffocating a white face, seemingly vacant when the play comes to a complete halt. Once I thought that my stereotype of a nobody was by far the worst way to be, but night after night we come together and after an hour of babbling on about something relatively and all together stupid, I realize what a joy it is to be alone. I’m missing my cause and the company that shall never vanish no matter how old age is, or how far gone the day is. If I am the stepping stone for another vast cathedral reaching the sky, I must retreat before the base collapses.

Author: Lindsay Niemann

Writer | Graphic Artist