(Not Living) a Life

I am a Writer who never Writes
I am a Worker who hates to Work
I am a Drinker who rarely Drinks
I am a Stoner who never Smokes
I am a Lover who has no one to Love
I am an Observer who cannot See
I am a Talker who says Nothing
I am a Sociallite with no Social Life
I am a Faithful who hates Religion
I am a Artist who never Draws
I am a Seeker who does not Search
I am a Hub who has no Network
I am a Hugger who flinches in Hugs
I am a Kisser who has Dusty Lips
I am a Blogger who has nothing to Update

Scene One (on a loop)

The Apartment is flooded with light; nearly every lamp or overhead light is on.
A scented candle burns on the sofa table.
Ska, hardcore, and punk plays on the stereo at low volume.
With the windows closed, little can be heard from the Outside World. Maybe a scream or car alarm sounds at times, but, for the most part, an eerie silence holds the night.

A man is seen stretched out on a too small couch on his back. He's reading a magazine, folded in half, while a cat sleeps curled against his right leg. The man can feel the heat radiating from the cat's back, through his pant leg, and into his skin. He feels calm, yet there is a nagging sensation in the back of his mind. Something tugging desperately at him, trying to wake him up even though he is already awake.

He's forgotten something of importance. Or he's procrastinated something, postponed something of equal importance. Has he put something off that needs to be done?

"I am living someone else's life."

This isn't the first time he's thought this.

This happens every night