It is said by some that great writing comes out of a lifetime of suffering. A stack of contiguous decades of experience composed of indifferent conclusions and perpetual break even’s that lead to loneliness and right turns down left lanes of irrevocable repetitive singular conclusions. The whole notion of some personal grail quest being noble smacking of solipsism as the rest of the world of man remains equally indifferent to any other sense of despair outside of their own. They have churches for that. One easily postulates caught within in this mindset that the world around them is naught but a poorly controlled fiction drummed up by their unconscious. An inherent fiend of being let loosely the light of day to play nasty tricks. The accompanying fantasy in place that everyone surrounding these daily dramas is simply another bit player summoned up by those same pernicious impulses. Ones that often afflict many of those with too much time on their hands or too much useless daily clutter piled high on their desks. It seems that as long as the conventions of grammar and punctuation remain in force, that anyone possessing a pen or computer workstation non-plussed by direct observation or personal experience is pretty much free to churn out a plethora of parenthetic mush. The only modern distinction designating the crown of works of genius being a the habit erring on the side of proclivity in the number of pages produced.
The horizon of the western sky was a incrementally drifting stain of Prussian blues diluting salmon oranges quickly settling into the brightly void. The phone stood silent on the corner table beneath the picture window. The phone had stopped ringing many months before. Like a miniature stele from ancient times it had become an afterthought remaining in place mostly out of a sense of family respect that was equally evaporating into the surrounding oblivion of uninterrupted silence. A room after all was simply the same designed to hide eclectic combinations of furniture within. And support an acceptable pretense that total sum of its assemblage somehow represented something distinctly eternal about one’s self. It was plenty obvious that one was simply another self motivating fixture restlessly active within the same inventory waiting for an undisclosed moment not too far ahead into the distant future waiting to be moved out into the scrapyard. Modern existence was an easily replaceable universe seeming no different than any other when the lights weren’t turned out. When dreams in the fitful night along with came vistas seemed unfamiliar to the eye. But each were motivated by a sense of longing to discover something remaining sympathetic to one’s standing experience but perpetually out of sight. The storehouse of possibility whittled down to repetitive scenarios gnawing at one. The pages turning within but never able to be fully revisited as before after being first visited. Those few scraps of their recollection remaining after leaving the edge of the bed insufficient to cover the waiting nakedness of a coming day. Thus the pretense of normal daily existence remained unaffected offering another period of routine activity within the interval before the night once again sneaked past the dying embers of the sun to lay claim to one’s attentions yet again.
Solitude was no answer. A game to be played out against the equally phantom opponent of boredom in waiting for something to happen. It had matured into a hard shell outer mantle to be borne in a manner that was every bit as expected as a clean white shirt or properly hemmed pair of trousers. The eventual end of this daily farce remains never honorable. Nor should one expect it to be! It’s a denial of life caught in the tar pit of an unexpectedly mundane favoring unrealistic expectations that nothing worse than before could be expected to come. Every normally unheard residual sound detected about this recognition an underwhelming chorus championing despair. A hellish cacophony of indifference eternally persistent, perfectly disguised as normal. The unexpected awareness of these moments sandwiched betwixt silent reverberations of an otherwise empty room.