Reflection(s) on the Letter O

Definitely not a masterpiece. I just felt the need to rant, so I did.

    O

So I've heard--
or perhaps I only thought,
in the slowly churning murk
that is my mind at present--

that someone once said
something along the lines of "Every story
must begin with a single letter
on a blank page"

and so, ladies and gents,
that is what I present to you tonight:
the letter O,
alone,
lost.

Because even though this isn't a story
(or is it?),
whatever it is,
it has to begin the same way.

Let's contemplate, for a moment,
the letter O,
infinite
in both its cases,
and yet so very small.

Look.  I know I have no right
to feel the way I do,
crying at the dinner table,
not doing the things I WANT to do
simply because then someone might notice
and remind me of the things I HAVE to do,
like calling the dentist
or getting a job,
and thus I waste hours
lying on the floor of my bedroom
doing absolutely nothing--
not even thinking, really--
or playing The Sims on my iPad,
watching the minutes tick away
so that I can collect revenue on my houses
the very instant that their timers reach zero.
Or maybe I'll go onto Facebook
to find that my friends are doing things
and having fun
and being normal, healthy, social
functioning human beings.

And then I go back to The Sims
to see if my beans
are ready to harvest.

The other day,
I forgot my own name
when I went to sign a card.
My hand wrote it
purely by muscle memory,
and then I stared at those five letters
C-H-L-O-E
and thought to myself
"That's a funny sounding word.
Do you suppose it's my name?
Do I even have a name?
What's a name?"

And all I felt was empty.
Hollow,
infinite,
just like the letter O.

The End

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