Distracted

There is a special kind of hunger in the eyes of those who consume instead of create.

It is the reason we walk by drug addicts, sprawled on dirty stoops, and avert our eyes in contempt. We understand the potential for each of us to turn towards avarice.

It is all too easy for us to follow a river down to its last winding streams of water. To sift, handful after handful of black mud, until stubby nails start to bleed.

I am a part of the distracted. Part of the glossy eyed pack, those of us inundated with emails to write, shows to watch, text messages to send.

I let the seconds run out until my next Netflix show loads. I scroll through Instagram and select stories from friends I know will upset me. But beneath these is a wish to escape. A longing to be absorbed into thin air, emotions weightless off my back. Brain unthinking and empty.

I find that white, quiet room all too easily. That space nestled between sanity and daydream. Focus and unfocus.

Most of the time, my distraction is true crime. Somehow, hearing gruesome details grounds me.

I am taken to a space where the trauma is not my own. A place where I can project all of my pain and loneliness into the voice floating to me over the airwaves.