Lost on the rough roads of a cartoon forest. Bumping along roads my old luxury sedan was at jeopardy of failing at. Large gray paper mache color pits in intersections to be avoided. Resolved to be brave if the end was to come. I bumped, bumped bumped over verdant shoulders past tall straight trees possible only in the imagination to avoid these traps. All this travel through strange enigmatic territory to enact an internecine rivalry in a wooded glen at a ridiculously short distance plunking Glock ammunition back and forth. Two against one. Plink, plink, plink upon respective barriers that both parties had to stay crouched behind. Why? What was the purpose of this battle? Some minor point of meddling angst or petty aggravation to be settled in a grievous wound that neither of us wanted. The foolishness of it descending upon us after the offers of chivalry in periods of reload aloud for time away from each of our barriers. The ammunition of each of our small arms cannonade growing short in supply. A newly found felicity built on the realization that mercurial bouts of futile exhaustion makes the best of friends after all.
On, after all, I have supped the broth of futility so often. Come up dry in a desert of my own making that should have been a glen. No why’s or wherefores to explain that well-incarcerated desire to simply destroy myself and get the whole damn thing over with poste haste. The dust of the ages fuzz accumulated in my navel. Ceaseless pleasures forlorn for the sake of a constant and long enforced love of solitude. The world absolutely perfectly the way that I want it. Ego maniacal franchises that have no endings. No time outs. The world is awash with television Socialism of false Utopias of simulated universes where paradise has no conclusion only stay tuned next week’s. How in the Hell of one’s own created eternal fire could one succeed in such a place without the descent of perpetual ennuii? Plnik, plink, plink! The shooting contest continues again. The ring of copper and lead on steel failing to lead to produce a mixture of bronze. De-evolusion to a state of perpetuity shooting at the shadow of one’s self. An effigy taken from times past. A straw man. A wicker man. Set afire with old unsatisfied dreams struggling for continued life within.
Each time I rise I find myself back in this same darkness wandering and wondering about an all too familiar space so high above the pavement. Mount Olympus my prison cell. The proferred trade of tat without tit. A mental chess extravaganza with my own failed impatience. I have become naught. Some old husk shocked forth by the winnow. This game of shadows past ever present in a tiresome lexicon of well-determined defenses against that which is desired so deeply. Hamlet’s rant! Killer bee magical conclusions of hive like propositions promising results through constant stings of inconsequential results. Sequestered in this chair stairing at a lighted screen. The sounds of the mand-made mechanical universe deverting me from my calling with the stars. Porpoise play in the eternal celestial dust of immense gaseous nebulas. I lay back and drift but encounter a wall. The inner dimensions of this rectangular manmade configuration that I will not leave. Horse in the burning barn. Too tired to think. Bump, bump, bump! The neighbors next door threaten my sleep. I am done for! Good night.