Impure

Quiet.
Still.
The thick air seems to push down,
Weighing more than any real thing.
Ill-perceived by my thoughts, it groans under me
With the cushion, bowl shaped by my perennial existence.
Somehow their lives are more perceivable than my own.
Sterile, premade, they make no decisions in their pixelated world.
All problems resolved within a third of an hour,
All questions answered in that time.
Why not substitute these impurities for my own?
Impurities that will be destroyed in 22 minutes.
Impurities that define us.
I get up, walk outside
Into the fresh, impure air.