Termites Gift-Prose Poem

Praise to the termites! Praise to the termites whose scuttling and scratching break the oppressive, thick, stifling silence of this four-walled cubicle of claustrophobia. Of claustrophobia and contamination. The contamination of my own self-pity and despair that barely, just barely, outweigh the sickening anxiety of the claustrophobia. Praise to the termites! Praise to the termites who nibble through my electrical wires. Who blind me from the water-stained, grime-covered, blank-staring walls. Who put out the one pale light bulb dully flickering; swinging from its wire like the pendulum in my father's grandfather clock. He was a university professor. He wanted me to be a lawyer. Fuck that, I hate lawyers. Praise to the termites! Praise to the termites who chased away those who once came concerned. I hated their pity. I hated their condescension. My own self-pity will suffice. They were driven away in disgust, and lost hope. The termites give me company now. The one thing remaining to be conquered, to complete the self-imprisonment, is the window. Right now it is only barely visible. I can faintly see snowflakes lazily drifting to the street below without care or haste. They compel me. They also kill me. They remind me of more innocent times when I had ambition and a curiosity for the world. Hot coffee, a pretty girl's soft sweater, talk of change and love and culture. How naive. I look out the window now. Past the snow I see, a ways away, the cleague lights of some big event downtown. Fuck them and their limousines, their jewelry and fame. I also see, in a break in the clouds, a patch of stars against the velvet black. I see the stars and the cleague lights. I see them, but to be honest, from here they look exactly the same.