And here it is again, this inevitable infernal ride toward humanity's rat race, that ever-persistent persnicketiness pretension that infiltrates the heart and beleaguers the mind. Yet, we fall into line, effectively buying into that round-robin philosophy, to be prisoners of cages of our own making. Like an immense anthill, we toil endlessly for what exactly? remains a mystery. It all appears so meaningless, despite the underpinning sense of the replete opposite.
Darkness pervades my return to such an environment, the shadowy trees loom ominously as merciless sentries on guard against the scourge of this planet, namely us. The first coats and warmer implements of outerwear intercede on the coming onset of Samhain itself, the essential death knell of illumination of the to-and-from workplace. As is precluded from such gloomy conditions the gaits become lethargic, yawns more frequent, sputtering synapses prevalent, public precarious napping insolent, etcetera, etcetera.
An end and a simultaneous beginning it seems, to what exactly? I cannot say, for mere existence is attainable if not downright inescapable.
In Which A Power Failure Gives Me Pause
2 months ago
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