Quiet Nights

Only feeling the drafty bit of a quiet cup of tea
Sitting in the dark blue of a television absorbing me
We already had our words all bent on the weather
You said so greenly
It was a yellow city kind of day just drenched

Empty cardboard boxes always seem to annoy me, as if they're asking to be broken down and done away with, for me to settle in and say this is home, or to pack them and tape them and load them away for the next leg of the journey. They're just solid though, unmoving in their quiet corner of the small closet just staring at me staring back at them. I hate to tear this place apart, admit that the entire adventure was a mistake and should be undone if possible, though it is much too late for that now, 3 years ago maybe, but now is simply pointless. Not only that but this was somewhat of a comfortable place, quiet and solitary, where I had my own little haven in my own little sector away from the noise of all the blathering airheads that now adorn the former campus of mine. As you can see it's not so much the physical part of moving that bothers me, but the mental preparations of such, making sure that I can create a new territory wherever I end up, making sure that despite wanting to hold on I do indeed let go of whatever I leave behind. Though I am quite accomplished at burning bridges, a pseudo side effect of many things in the past. I really hate cardboard boxes, though. They give the worst paper cuts in the worst possible places on your hand. Not only that, but also they dry your hands out after working with them for awhile to the point where your knuckles start cracking open and then the real pain sets in, not to mention it's a bitch to heal areas like that.
But the glassware had to go. The entire collection of glasses I've gotten from such fine drinking establishments as the Winking Lizard all packed away finally with my pilsner glasses and pitcher and shot glasses. I have to devise a way to get them to my gigantic inflatable Corona bottle and remaining pint and shot glass. Seeing as I will no longer need any of the drinking paraphernalia, I figure that it should all go to the person who will most likely use it and/or never realize that they have it. Stupid boxes.
I find it odd in fact that some people despite their insistence will always be the first to forget what I myself have done as well as what I've done for them, not that I always want people to remember, but it would be quite nice to know that I made some sort of impact on someone such that they remember me for years to come and tell stories and such. Alas, most stories people tell are of the legends. I won't name names, but one such has initials that begin with "W" and end in "ackenbrack". I'd like to think that one of my finest moments happened to be on a Sunday in the emergency room. I never had to be there, in fact with all things taken into account I doubt most people would've gone in those circumstances; nonetheless, I was there. Meh It's all the same I suppose, remembered or forgotten when we change the world in the smallest of ways we still know that we've done it, not exactly laudable, but who ever said I did things for the reward. You might not have even seen most of my work only because I do it for those that need it done. Balance.