Cinnamon

Of course, it’s a beautiful day
Outside
But one is inside and feeling
Discontented.
Because something has reminded a human of
Something
Which is true, but takes away the joy found
In the little things of life
Hobbies.
And no, I don’t mean the
Fact that one day, somehow
One’s going to die.
Why is that so terrible, again?
But what I mean is that
You remember you aren’t
Exceptional; at all
In something you enjoy quite a bit
And thought perhaps you might be good at
It doesn’t matter
What it is.
Harmless, little things pop up and
Say, “Oh, yes. You’re not exceptional.”
Not noticeably “better” or “worse”
Somewhere in the grey.
Never is it one of those
Knife-in-the-heart
Pains, nothing dramatic and wounding like that
Instead, it’s like cinnamon’s
Bitter taste where you had expected sugar.
One frowns, steps back.
It robs one of an appetite—
Any desire to finish or remake the
Meal properly.
Just forget it
The lack of motivation or extreme feeling
Or extreme anything—
That is the worst of it:
It’s just
Bitter indifference