How curious that on any random heavenly blue struck morning how your own foorsteps echo so loudly in the solitude of past tense? A childlike gait taking in all within mortal sight to add to that barely remembered stock of all moments from long ago. So remote from when that last step taken now clearly fixed in the mind having found someone else’s mislaid toy now so easily in reach. That same morning sun resting overhead unmoved by your presence bringing you back to yourself in a synonomous unchanging instant.
Here sits what’s left of me. Drained by a mysterious mortal sickness. One that fits the narrative of the times. Throat on fire and limbs weakened by what is to be currently imagined as a virus. Some little biomechanical monster. A toy to play with in terms of taking lives. Has grim death come a tapping upon my shoulder? Two days of constant Hell.
How trivial the daily activities of human existence become over one’s lifetime. Age draining one of that far ago wonder. The sickness of too many years poisoning one’s outlook making all beyond the chaos of nature seem dull. And like any common sickness one becomes unimpressed with everything around him. Enthusiam dwindled for everything but an absence of the heaviness of constant distress weighing down upon one. The minutes become years upon the conveyor belt of a persistent conscious appreciation for one’s unchanging dilemma. That soreness of a throat at the checkpoint of swallowing. A needful grimmace at each juncture performed continually again by this self-indulgent ham actor. The only useful activity struck in imagining the conclusion of this ordeal.
The cycle of these repeating events is drole. The society around me treats me like a commodity. Something that theoretically exists in millions and therefore possesses no worth and little if any regard. A plucked hankie tossed upon the sidewalk soaked and dried in the snot of anonymous other. The world that surrounds me is of a different time. The tail end of the overlap of eras that remains more under foot than apparent. Fallen out of grace with my peers by way of and ongoing pattern of my own constant neglect. Stale dried bisquits haphazard upon the roadside. Once someone’s toy.
The path ahead so well touted by those that will profit by directing one there. Yet, the past so well defined, if not factually correct offers a more palatable fantasy. A place to conjer deferred dreams tracing them back mentally to where they were left parked by the roadside. A place to review one’s self and perhaps consider a better outcome? But then we all get sick and die at the end. So we must take this past in stride with the actuality of the present however bitter that might seem. Shrug it off with an appreciative glance as with any other bygone fantasy. That rusty old wreck no longer the latest most luxurious in automobiles. The mirror within which you place your stranger’s face providing similar counsel. Battered brains within in the vise grip of uncontrolled swelling.
It’s all a jumble. The whole thing’s a mess! To any clear thinking individual this might be enough to comment upon. Common sense shifting about as the will of the wisp from time to time. Who dares say that up is not down, or exactly the opposite if it is said to such by those really in charge? Perhaps that fact alone is at the root of the illness that I suffer?
Each night seem to gain ground. Struggle against that persistentally intervening choking pain till dawn. Find one’s self little if no better off with the bright morning Sun. Who will win? The maker’s of this little army? A battle of endurance based upon faith derived from experiences of the past. The day challenges me to keep up, but I am unable. A further lesson for the future, if there happens to be one?
How can one know the reality behind one’s self without seeing that wrinkled tissue floating below one as they hack their guts outover the bowl? That new feeling of tearing down below that was never there in the past. The thunderous staccato of uncontrollable cough splitting wider one’s internals. The price to pay becoming closer to mortality for what might have once been tossed off as trivial. Lungs hot, raw, and glowing from unwanted exertions. A biological version of trench warfare with no end in sight.
Who can make sense of their own end? I am just a rag on a floor dropped somewhere in an abandoned area out of sight of the highway. That semi-evident discard pile the presence of which ironically lasts longer than most of humanity passing on the highway just beyond. Stopped dead in my tracks by the suddend realization that there is no farther to go. The uncountable weight of too many indistinguishable years of standing in one place under the illusion of getting somewhere now unmistakeable.
It is good to remember that there is always more art to be found in the moment when one is in distress. Physical discomfort providing a useful distraction from otherwise all too necessary demands by others. And a balm of martyrdom to reaily apply to any awkward situation that might otherwise result in censure. The persistence of the phenomena though too quickly becoming an intolerable house guest.
After a gap of days in a gauntlet that has bent ones sense of time out of shape. Whose face is this carved in black diorite into the spare reflection of an unlit computor screen. Uneedfully serious as death but not as lasting. My mortal remains transferred in the night from what small notion of youth that was expelled in the lung’s nightly violence. Had I spent a lifetime screaming at the top of my lungs I might have ended up better off?
The falling Sun plays its drama once again across my walls with shadows suggesting a new set of past tense instants. The fall of light versus its absence randomly bringing forth more trivia of life how it was once long ago lived. That quiet of magic hour descending slowly like glue. I am a wooden peg pounded tightly in place. The presence of all those now dead nearby just out of sight. And I somehow sililently within waiting for a cold hand to take my own and lead me away to that whereever.