Its sunday, just like any other day, and a million storms whirl through my head. I am disinterested in the becomings of today and I show no mercy for the ambitions within them. I feel low and unbearably drowsy as if all my dillemas now swing from my eyelids. I can feel, as if in the very air around me, that life itself is insulted and disillusioned from my insurmountable boredom and lethargy.  I convince myself that its mere coincidence that recent days have been so especially gloomy. As if the sun has been appeasing its appetite with strong helpings of clouds. Such gluttony is not constricted to only man, you know. The rivers consume more than their share of hopeless bodies dragged slowly downwards. And the mountains, with their militant lonliness, set out to toss all trespassers from thier atop thier peaks as if to fill its summit relentlessly with the same lack-of-everything that I am composed of today.

The street is entirely black save for dim lampshades from windows with backdrops of glowing TV’s. The lights bow and turn low at my arrival and I walk past a million blank stares from the windows of the houses.  I have yet to feel true solitude and they have long since heard a knock on thier door that came without ill intentions. And yet it is me who feels intruded upon and not the figures staring from behind the open curtains. It is me, alone outside, who feels betrayed and trespassed. Me – without a true home yet infinite places I’ve laid my drowsy head to sleep. I have dreams of tossing every blank gaze, stupid smirk and entitled, rotten carcass off the cliffs. And I stand as a mountain with the same blank, apathetic eyes as they fall away. I dream that I am the great waters pulling down the prestigious, glorious bodies. Filling their lungs and pushing all of me down into thier full,  spoiled bellies. In dreams I am the insatiable gluttony of all nature.

In the mind of a young boy, the future is negligible and life draws out so far into the distance that it hurts your eyes. You watch things die but can place no empathy for to be a child is to be part of the dark clouds above on gloomy afternoons filled with moisture – Filled with such possibility. And to grow is to fall violently to the earth into pools of filth and rusted pipes. Dirty rooftops and sickening alley ways. And it is just as much a game of chance, for some of us land in great pastures to flourish with all the necessities of life and others fall to the sewage and rot of the earth.  Some land on great cathedrals and others drop into the bleakness of the oceans as one impossibly small molecule that barely (yet certainly) adds to a enormous amount of nothingness. Terribly aware that if it had never been, there would be a million other “could-have-been-something-else’s” in its place to participate in the inevitable tedium. The intolerable “scheme-of-things.”