The Song of the Empty Boxes

You know what I hate the most. The empty boxes. 12 bottles gone. Sometimes I throw them out empty. As they came into this world so shall they leave it. Because when I think about it they were, in fact, empty from the beginning. Or at least devoid of whatever it is I continually seek to find in them.

Sometimes I stuff them full with other trash before I throw them in the dumpster. Now there's an appropriate metaphor. Only problem is, no matter how much trash you get rid of, more inevitably develops.

The clang of the bottles as I move the cases is so loud. From car to house. Closet to fridge. The theme song of my addiction.

Only it's not so much an addiction as it is a symptom. All this hating life has spawned many rashes. This is just one of them.

I know I could stop if I wanted to do so. A few sleepness nights is nothing I'm unfamiliar with. I used to do it on purpose. But I don't want to stop. Because self-destruction is so much more appealing than simply being destroyed.