Ghost writing

I used to be interested in the arcane
the otherworldly
the not known by everyone.
And so I never learnt the normal things
Names of trees, flowers, stones,
architecture, poets, rock bands.
Except the very basic
Rose, Eliot, U2.
Just to get by, to not sit blank through every conversation.

My interests were other people’s interests.
In an Omnibus, a burnt CD, a website
a patient crash course on a drunken evening.

But these too are gone.
Not only am I alone I am self contained now
literally, entombed by myself.
Alone, uninterested, cut off from the world
its media, its people, its low concerned voices.

And I pity myself
not just because, I for having no interests, am no longer interesting.
No it’s not just for the loss of vanity
it’s for the loss of life, liveliness, spirit.

And I wonder how I go by all these years
shamming interests when there weren’t any.
When the only abiding interest was myself.
And now that I pause and look inside
that too is gone.