The Cold Floor Kids

This disconnect is hard to explain. It isn’t familiar or irritating. It isn’t offering any cold comfort nor is it pulling me into a vortex of self-destruction. It’s just an unmagnetic feeling taken over me in relation to everything: writing, breathing, fucking, laughing…

This could be due to the absence of a real hobby, a real love, a real reason. I just know that I sit on this kitchen floor and debate what to do next. I attempt living by the refrigerator-poetry I have affixed to the door: you are only as deep as the depth of your interests. 

Where’s the proverb and wisdom about the ones with no interests? Forever in search for the poem telling me that it’s ok to feel nothing.