Static Reverie

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. There’s a dull hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead, the kind that never quite stay on, like the world’s forgotten how to be fully awake. The bar’s a dive—grimy, the walls soaked with a history of bad decisions and stale beer. It’s just another place to drown out the noise of the outside world, or at least pretend the noise isn’t there.

I find myself staring out the window, watching the headlights paint the street in that same frantic, artificial dance, like the city’s trying to stay alive, but it’s only fooling itself. The traffic’s thick, an endless river of cars that doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down. People rush past, lost in their own little bubbles—heads down, hands busy. They're searching for something, anything, but they’ll never find it. Not in their phones. Not in their flat-screen lives.

From here, the world looks like a carnival of desperation—somewhere between a tragic performance and a cheap advertisement. Everyone’s playing their part, but the show’s rigged from the start.

I take a sip from my glass, let the burn crawl down my throat. The noise of the bar fades out a little more. It’s like I’m somewhere else, watching the whole thing unfold. People think they’re going somewhere, but all they’re really doing is running in circles. Same bad habits. Same empty faces. Hell, they’re probably all just waiting for the next commercial to come on, the next distraction to make them feel like they're doing something with their lives.

And me? I’m just another spectator. Just another soul drifting in this static air, catching a moment’s breath before the cycle starts up again. I’m one of them. Just another guy, holding onto whatever’s left of his dignity, just trying to make it through the night without another need to drink, another dumb decision, or another woman asking me what I want out of life, like I’ve got the answer written in the back of my skull somewhere.

But out here in the blur of headlights and alleyway whispers, there’s only one thing I know for sure: nobody’s got a clue. Not the guy at the corner bar nursing his fifth whiskey, not the hooker with the thick eyeliner and the cracked smile, and sure as hell not me, stumbling through life like I’m the punchline of a joke I don’t remember signing up for.

I take a drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling up like it knows something I don’t. Maybe it’s just trying to escape too.

I flick it into the street and head back to the bar alone—nobody seems to smoke anymore. Too busy feeling self-righteous in between their boxed-food meals and social media soul search.

I order another drink—last one before I head out. To cool the nerves. It burns going down the way I hoped it would, cleaning out that lingering stale taste of bad weed, full body cigarettes, and last nights hazy memory of some tight pussy I think I met by the bar. This bar. God I hate this place.

"Hey you're back." I look up. Damn. Not again.

"Yeah well, it's supposed to be a place where I don't know anybody." I nod, indifferent, taking a sip.

He sits down. I need to find a new bar. He waves the bartender down and orders us a around. I order the black label. He can afford it. The glass slides across the counter, the ice cubes scraping the rim like little shards of regret.

I take the drink, savor the burn as it rolls down, and try not to think about the last time I ended up here with a stranger who was too damn eager to be my "savior" by becoming my "friend". People like him—they never get it. The ones who think they can fix you with a smile or a drink. Hell, maybe I’m just a walking wound looking for a place to bleed out.

He watches me, his grin stretching like he’s got insider info on the existential crisis I’ve been trying to ignore. "How’s life?" he asks, like I’m out here auditioning for a role in a feel-good movie, not stumbling through this dumpster fire of a night.

I take a slow sip, letting the burn of the liquor crawl down my throat, making sure it knows how much I hate it. "Look around, man. It’s a goddamn joke," I reply, without bothering to even glance at him. I keep my eyes locked on the bottle—because if I stare long enough, maybe I can pretend there's some dignity left in denying the next round. It's like a bad game show, and I’m the guy who forgot the answers.

He laughs—too loud, too proud. It echoes off the walls like he’s trying to laugh his way out of an awkward therapy session. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you question your own life choices. He leans in, like he’s about to drop some wisdom that’s going to change everything, which—spoiler alert—he isn’t. "It’s all a joke, man," he says, with the confidence of a guy who’s never had to make rent on time. "This whole thing’s a circus. We’re all clowns in a ring that doesn’t even have a tent anymore."

I can’t help but smirk, because yeah, he’s right. But at least I’m the kind of clown who knows the show’s rigged. "Yeah," I mutter, "but at least I’m not the clown still looking for the tent."

He nods, like I’ve just imparted some ancient truth. I take another sip. Maybe life is a circus, but I’m pretty sure I’m the guy they forget to pay.

I glance up finally, give him a tight smile—sharp, like I’m cutting through the nonsense.

There’s a beat. The kind where the air in the bar gets thick, and for a moment, it feels like we both know we’re wasting time, but neither one of us has the give a fuck to walk away. He nods, tipping his glass, then leans back in his chair. "Life's a bitch, right. Yep."

I swallow the last of the drink. The night’s still young, but I’m not sure I want to keep playing the same tired game. Hell, I’m not sure I even want to be here. But where else would I go? People like me don’t have options—they just keep circling the drain until the water finally pulls them under. And so, I get up to leave, the door swinging open with a sound that’s almost too loud, like it’s trying to escape too.

Outside, the streets greet me with that same buzz of headlights, broken promises, all set to the sound of boot heels on the sidewalk. The world keeps spinning, though it doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere. Or maybe it’s just me, too tired to feel the revolution anymore. It’s all so damn predictable, the way everything’s going to hell, like we’re all on a slow ride to nowhere, just hoping to squeeze out a little more time before the clock runs out. The streets are filled with faces too distracted to see what’s happening, all lit up by their screens and lost in the hum of a world that doesn’t care anymore. We’re all ghosts, floating by in the dark, pretending there’s something left to hold onto.

It’s like watching a garage band play in a venue that’s too far gone to save. There’s beauty in the breakdown, I’ll give it that, but it’s a desperate kind of beauty—like watching someone drown and finding something romantic in the bubbles. The rhythm’s all off, the notes jagged and out of place, but they still somehow manage to keep playing, to keep pushing against the weight of it all. There’s something almost tragic in it, the way we cling to the remnants of meaning, even when we know it’s all been sold off to the highest bidder.

You can feel the tension in the air—the way people move like they’re in a trance, hypnotized by the endless stream of noise, the memes, the hashtags, the endless cycle of cheap entertainment that keeps them from asking the real questions. It’s all just a distraction, a constant hum in the background while the world falls apart. But no one cares about the big picture.

They’re too busy with the next viral trend, the next bit of content to consume. Maybe it’s easier that way, to shut it all out, to numb yourself to the slow rot.

I used to believe in something, I think. Something bigger than all of this. But that belief has been smothered by the weight of everything. The idea that we could all come together—that we could, in some strange way, find a thread that connected us. I wanted to believe in unity once, maybe even fought for it, but that was a long time ago, back when there was something left to fight for. Now, all that’s left is the noise. The chaos. The feeling that we’ve missed the last exit off the highway and no one noticed.

But we keep going anyway. I don’t know why, but we do. Maybe it’s the same reason the band keeps playing, even when the building’s falling down around them. Maybe we’re all just trying to find some rhythm in the wreckage, even if it’s just for a moment. It doesn’t change the fact that the world is what it is—broken, cracked, hollowed out. We’re all just waiting for the final note to sound. Maybe it's the cold that numbs you to everything else. Maybe it's just that the world’s already gone too far for anyone to really care about anything but themselves. And maybe—I don’t know—maybe that’s all anyone ever really wants. But for now, it’s just me and the night, stumbling through the wreckage of something that never really had a chance in the first place.

The world doesn’t give you answers. It gives you smoke. And maybe, just maybe, it’s all you can do to watch it rise and disappear into the cold, empty air.