A Genuine Protest For Peace

Torn asunder I am - social and spiritual being, both a pole apart. On my own in my room and it's late in the evening, and the nocturnal gloom outside is a lash which violently tears out bits of pale skin from the emaciated body of wisdom and seriousness; not to say how cold it is, and how windy. It's time for my £1o Parker fountain pen to become pretentious! And as I drown my sorrow in the blank sheet of paper before me, I take sanctuary in the smooth, black ink, which flows and flows over the paper; but I would more likely descend into the underworld content with a truly accomplished work for which I yearn, than resign to the frivolity of heavenly drunkeness - it's a paradox, a painful sting in fact for my already impaired ego, and yet it is a truism set in stone. Only some feet away, a few thin walls actually separate me from the sound and fury of the nearby kitchen where this exact paradox, should it become public knowledge, would be seen through a magnifying glass - exaggerated, hyperbolized and vainly laughed at.
This company of people, resigned to pseudo-hedonism, is a distinct muffle to my exhausted ears. And I, resentful, holding them in secret contempt, I simply keep on writing, though I fumble and noiselessly stammer, my pen coughing up blood rather than ink, fresh and crimson from my embittered soul. Am I on the same wavelength as them tonight? Alas, not quite, for I can be, and yet I refrain - a totally different wavelength I am writing of...
And so as they laugh and drink, blatantly and unashamedly justifying their student status, immersed in an intense discourse concerning their two chief worldy objectives of the night - hallucination-inducing absinthe and the fine, fresh, female 'stock' awaiting them at the averagely hellish nightclub in town. 'Averagely hellish' - a powerful though absurd phrase, not without its humour, but oh, what a perfect and exquisite dress it is for the faceless, cold, silent plastic model of the night's painful meaninglesness!
And as they are laughing and babbling away, I - alone and bitter - am trying in desperation to be inspired, even for a second or two; and yet nothing, I feel nothing at all, and writing itself is rather mechanical and unnatural, but I try with every possible means available to a person's capacity for concentration, to continue so as not to stop at a dead end.
As the others are chattering away in the neighbouring room, I sit alone, tired and moody, and I am writing a story of the impotence of their generation which is also mine.