Wouldn’t a story be better if it didn’t have you, or perhaps I, as a protagonist? How mundane the immediacy of life without some overbearing drama to mess with it. To mess it up. To start off with something anything and see the slow slide into a nothingness of routine. Something, anything to relieve the sameness. If for nothing else to concentrate on anything out of the ordinary. Maybe the entertainment engines that supervise provide some diversion in the form of cinema. But sooner than not you have to come back out of the theater.Or possibly fall asleep half way through and forget the rest by morning a few minutes after waking. Or just not remember to begin with as you are so turned off that nothing registers beyond a convenient blankness. Blankness being better than conscious empty emotions that Years of it making you ask the big questions. What the fuck happened to my life? Where did all those years go?
Maybe that is why so many willingly surrender their lives to something organized that will conveniently order them about? Keep them busy. And every once in a while give them a certificate, or medal or something that they can point to as an achievement? But if you rack up too many achievements you find that after a while they don’t seem to mean as much as they once did at the start. Then it’s a race, or a competition with another not too different than you. That can only go on for so long until something human and inconvenient raises its inconvenient head to cause trouble between the two of you. On and on it goes in a descending spiral. You end up retracing your steps leaving wet footprints disappearing in the mud. Everything starts up as mud but ends up as dust. The dust of memories gone dry that lose their uniqueness. No single one standing out before any other. That restless animal within at odds with no clear target for advancing its passions. Contradiction in one out of sync with the other.
You quickly lose the future when you run out of a past. Civilization demands that you cannot kill to survive but must sacrifice yourself at its whim. After all, you are at their mercy! You live within rectangular solids that you fill up with odd collections of purposefully crafted junk and call it a home. You place yourself within endless costume changes that quickly grow old but somehow remain exactly the same. You call that your identity. If you can’t or won’t dress up then you need not bother to attend. The other most significant as a companion never seening to be on the same page when the manufactured confusion settles into boredom. No mutual appreciation of these expected doldrums. Just a cry to acquire more stuff or consume more goods. Maybe to grow in girth? Get fat and consume even more! But pretend, either one of you that nothing has changed by masking your size by the diversion of pretty little useless hand and eye gestures, Some form of implied knowing intimating that you don’t care because no one really cares. Enough!
Perhaps then you have acquired a form of symbiosis? You and that other. That silly little game of a playful cat and mouse that will kill you if you let it continue without answering the basics of that why bother. How in the Hell can you look out for number one when you are occupied on the pot with facilitating number two? No privacy to be had in hiding your best secrets from yourself as someone else not only now knows them but is ever ready to put them to use. You play on because at a certain point you have exhausted all your other options. The staring match begins. A standoff conducted in silence. The only thing that might stop it is the prolonged absence of you or that shadow. Then you can refill your head with more frivolous notions. It is all so useless after the illusion finally fades. And now an empty room awaits and you are back where you started. Bonjour! Another day has started. The illusion of time. But you remain as you were before standing still. As you always have been, standing still.