There's a hollow space in my head, that's for sure, that I happen to fall into, an unhappy sort of place that gets invited in when the weather's overcast and gray, the only constant in my kaleidoscope. I try to follow the trail of diminishing marginal utility in the chores I do when I start slipping into these dark moods. Right now, the rain is sort of in a dilemma; it hasn't really quite made up its mind yet. If it's done for the day, the rumbling sound of thunder is sort of an undecided monologued expression that's awfully loud for a soliloquy, even for the sky.
The day had eloped successfully into a hazy Bengali afternoon, orange with the pollution that's now characteristic of the air. The clouds broke the color space and upset the usual boundaries of the sky for the birds. A few birds are doing what birds do, and I don't know what that is, superficially to me, noise. Everything is noise, and the absence of it is really what is good for me. That's why I crave sleep; the few hours that I get are just a simulation of my absence here. I don't really matter to most people; there's just an oversupply; the rock's just coated with this infestation. Slime. A few less, at least ones that aren't of any consequence like me, would make the remaining broth healthy.
I'm just the rancid type that form the unsavory ruinous rubble, bubbles, which froth and foam into societal scum that's bad for everyone. The rainbows on these bubbles are as evanescent as the memories of the echoes of the laughter that once belonged to me—a forever ephemeral, fantastic, merry mirage that burst with the bubbles, spending what little color it had into the meaningless gray. Eventually morbid cackles of a demented mad man possessed with metaphors and schedefreud, the outpost for most that forget to lose gracefully. At least there needs to be more room; unless we exit, where's the room to fit the newcomers? I see people who have just been born already in the same job market; if I don't expire honorably, I encourage them to push me off a cliff. I hear some want to live forever.
Then again, I think, whenever my thinking isn't cloudy, that this is an island of meaning for the atoms that keep the space supposed to be me, me. I mean, they're never really the same atoms, but semantically, it's still me. I'm just another piece of information, really, that's alive, and the universe is a bigger clump of it. And although unfortunately and regrettably, the constraints that I'm dealing with have some challenges, it's by definition supposed to be this way; otherwise, it wouldn't make any entropy sense. When the only road points in all four directions, a peripatetic itinerant can either start questioning the geometry of his existence and go mad or look at the dot in the gray center of that nowhere and be willing to bet on a voyage. I know, I'm not making any sense, just another weird duck that's... (no, I can't use a bad word. I promised) having a bad duck day, I guess.
