Losing interest in comics

Tears of frustration not pictured.

I like to think I've got my priorities in order. I know what sits at the top, lording it over lesser priorities: family, eating etc. and I know what dwells in the dungeon of my concerns, barely surviving on the scraps of attention thrown down to it. It's pitiful really. That medieval dungeon of ill worth is becoming more overcrowded by the day. I went in to town today to give my Interest In Comics a breath of fresh air. He is a long-termer. The low priorities that share his cell call him a Lifer. When I grabbed Heavy Metal by his studded collar and bullet belt and threw him on the bedding straw, old Comics was already there, leafing through a copy of Previews that was already four years old. Inmates come and go. Even Sleeping, Grooming and Video Games have had short stays in the antechamber of apathy.

One day I'll stroll down the stone steps to the damp dungeon, rattling my keys and inform an exhausted and emaciated Interest In Films that he has served his time and is free to run amok in my mind and my wallet. He will, no doubt, be elated with the news of his release and before I help him up off the cold floor and out towards the light he may glance at old Comics then back at me, sunken eyes full of hope for his cellmate. It's likely I'll just shake my head and lock the door. And poor old Comics, well... he probably didn't even notice that I had come in.

My visit, today, to Forbidden Planet only served to reaffirm a future I already suspected. I will never again be 'into' comics.

Throw away the key... for they've come too far and become too many.