Worn out shoes, broken key chains and Xanax

I take a slow drive tonight. I heave a sigh of tiredness. Thinking back, physical exhaustion was
source not of my sighs and dark rings.
"What is?" I ask as I stopped at the red lights.

Slowly walking to the corners to find quiet, solace and peace, my chain of keys fall to the ground, into pieces.

I stop. I realise. The worn out soles, the expired music machines, the broken keys.
I said to myself, "They break in my hands, as I busied chasing my dreams."

I penned moments hours earlier. I let out much earlier. I ask again. They break, they fall apart, they are not important?

I penned more morbidity earlier. Talked about slips away, words of living stopped captured. Stop, I said, stop asking, stop caring.

These words keep me awake at night, these words keep thoughts alive. She says anxiety, she advised tranquility.

Triviality to some. Nocturnality to others.

I want to. Turn off. Switch off. Shut down.