Every day was the same speed, the same feel; or should I say the lack there of. Wake up and internally curse the start of another day. Though my dreams would attest to a different fate, I had not truly died. These were the reoccurring nightmares that had such frequencies they in fact became status quo. Nights were my mind died a painless unconscious death were in fact those I looked forward to. They were my only escape route from the monotony of life that mocked me with seemingly little effort.
The real nightmares were the opposite. The nightmares were when she reunited with me. Even her simple presence in my mind sent the fear of death straight through me. It had been five years since she left me. She would visit me every other night with clockwork like efficiency. The same dream was interwoven with dreams of my own demise every other night. The most painful trait these journeys carried with them was always the conclusion. It was always waking up, and once again starting the same day as the last. I had heard that hell was repetition. I could validate that sentiment. That is why I longed for the day when I would stop waking up. Then I could finally spend forever in the arms of the only one who made this life worth living.

--
The alarm clock continued the repetitive and annoying buzz needed to bring one from sleep to reality. 7:59, it was always 7:59. Every day for the past 5 years started at exactly 7:59. The last picture they ever took together had a way of welcoming him to hell. The happy couple waited patiently behind the glass. In the same frame they were always in, in the same position it ever was; they waited for the day he would finally make eye contact, shattering the glass once and for all. Its presence was the reason he could never once look to the alarm clock. Yet he knew exactly what time it was. It was 7:59. He remained in bed, staring at the ceiling for what he hoped would one day be the length of eternity. Unfortunately for him, today was not the beginning of eternity. It was 7:59.
The room she had once converted into a studio for his craft was now a tattered nest composed of unopened paychecks from his former publishing company, ripped paper holding scribbling and phrases, empty beer bottles, and dirty clothes. He could not ever recall doing laundry over the last five years. That was a chore that was reserved for days in which he didn't work his meaningless job and thus could go the entire day without thinking. These were the days he could not recall; the only sort he could take any enjoyment from. He would spend the day at the Laundromat in which they met. There he lived vicariously through memories of a much better time. A time spent with her.
The alarm clock continued to sound its bothersome buzz. He remained still on the twin mattress against the back corner of the room while continuing to stare at the ceiling. No matter how many he took before retiring for the night; the count of the sleeping pills never seemed enough to permanently extinguish the last flickering of light from his soul. He had tried every non violent stab at his life; not a single one had delivered the promised results. All of the failed attempts and undelivered promises over the past five years had led his mind to this day. There was no other escape beside the graphic and violent.
He wanted so badly to simply pass. Skip the bravado and tragic connotations that come along with discovering the dried blood of a once accomplished young author splattered on the walls of a room filled with paper, booze bottles and chicken scratched writings on society. He could do without these things. In fact, this once critically acclaimed young writer would simply stop showing up at the monotonous restaurant job. They would give him a courtesy call a few times before firing him. When the rent he had prepaid expired, the landlord would show up and find him ' finally done with the world he was forced to live through alone. He would be found ' finally happy. At 7:59.
But there was some force keeping this ultimate end from occurring. Even though he was considered a 'master of urban fiction'�; not even the once famed novelist turned restaurant server could have imagined the true forces conspiring (or their rationale) to keep him alive. Quite simply put, there was no where for him to go.

Upon flipping the electric razor into the on position, it buzzed the welcome white noise that nearly sent him further into trance. Chinaski forced the small device to his face with enough force to keep himself standing while in front of the dirty mirror in the narrow bathroom. Every morning the bathroom mirror showed the transformation of apathetic and suicidal to apathetic and serve safe. Sometimes he wondered why he shaved or showered at all. He obviously didn't need the job. All it would take was the opening and cashing of one of the several paycheck envelopes on his floor. There were several reasons as to why he did not dare to cash one of those paychecks. His mind would then flood with memories of what happened the last time he dared open one of those large checks. With a cigarette in hanging from his lips he would stare at the mirror until it was replaced with a fenced window of the Brown County Rehabilitation Center.
In another failed attempt at his life he did more cocaine than even he thought humanly possible. With a bankroll rivaling most of those in his age group who did not live in Burbank; Bukowski tried desperately to live the 'rock star'� life that television loved to showcase. This resulted in the caged windows that now replaced his bathroom mirrors, padded rooms, and association with those who wished for nothing more than to ignite the entire building with smoldering flames. Once Chinaski could admit to a passion to ignite the world through literature; but that ember had burned out. As only an ash it fell to the ground, becoming as innocuous as the words scribbled on paper resting on the floor of his former studio.
Chinaski tossed the cigarette butt into the adjacent toilet. There is joined the others in forming a moistened pile of filth and ash in the ceramic bowl. Some of the filters had remained in the water for so long that they hardly resembled their initial form. With an apathetic toss of his arm, he grabbed the stained and wrinkled Denny's work shirt off of a small hanger on the back of the door. Before buttoning the brown buttons he made sure to spray himself with body spray. People didn't care if you were actually hygienic or not. Society only cared for the physical ramifications. One squirt of the aerosol fragrance and suddenly apathy was hidden. For the price of $1.97 all pain and struggles were melded together to the unnoticeable blur that had become his existence.
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