Tragic Trivial Travels

If only I knew how to break out of this persona I have become. I know it follows some very repetitively bland pulses and rhythms.
Everyday seems to be about getting up just to get back into bed again that same day or even in a wider scope just like living each day just towards some final longed for moment. This isn’t good I can see that, but why can’t I shrug off that feeling and the demented persistent bashing of my head I currently maintain?
I follow the same never ending paths that actually lead me nowhere. I will get up tomorrow walk the dog, get on the bus, get to the flat in Leeds, change clothes, take my pills, look at the mess in the living room, feel the coldness of the emptiness of the flat, smell the fetid and rank stale odours, etc. To find there aren’t any jobs but there is yet more manufactured bad news; then I’ll haul back to Wetherby, along the same bus route I have been using since 1983, after no one has spoken to me all day, while trying not to spend any money wastefully in either Starbucks or Costas, even though it is the one place I can guarantee just to see people.
I am lonely and I am as frightened as I never thought I would be at 39; and I never thought my life would become this tragic shuttle of trivial travel.
I want to scream at all these people who sup up their coffees and frappes, contents out of talle or grande cups, content in their small regular groups that never ever brush or collide with another who might frequent the same coffee shop everyday and spend a poultry £1.70 on a grande filter plus talle refill. Sometimes there is a slight glance, a hint of a sparkle or a slight smile, but it is gone evaporating into the stiffened grimace.
Time to change the route I take I think?
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