Walking

My brain is throbbing again.

I needed to shake off the mechanical verve that my body had fallen rhythm to. Was I still breathing? Still blinking? But lets recalcitrate against the realization of self. I hate that. I just want to be dangling limbs and a pair of impartial eyes buried in flesh and warm layered fabric. Not a pariah looking for a purpose. I hate thinking of all this shit that is ultimately useless. Why can't walking just be walking? Why does it have to take on a degree of theatrics with me?

It was raining now, but my walk was still comfortable, still careening about in languorous loops from point a to point b, unfolding fictitious scenes in my mind... had this been a good short story. I was narrating my life again, viewing myself in a third person point of view and delegating purpose and meaning to every nuance and subtle movement of my being.
Everything was color and everything became subjective and deeper than its intent. I observed the viney green that clung haphazardly to the spine of a building bearing left, not right, as it lurched higher and higher. The bursts of yellow and cream light that doily-ed the dark and fell, creating distinguished shadows against the puckered street. I tried to find profundity in the orange peel lying next to the garbage, in the garish picket sign that screamed at me with color and caplocks to vote for Robert or in the globular bits of water that soaked my hair and clothes and skin. Had everything come together correctly, I might now have experienced a transcendent moment of glory; a resolution with a purpose that might direct my life, change my person and inject meaning into the serendipity of my phone dying, of my car being blocked, of me wandering around in the rain alone for 30 minutes now. So, where was it? I looked around and found nothing.

Is life really a collision of unaffiliated events that crescendo to meaningless dribble? Most of the time I assuage uncertainty with the idea that decisions and action that precipitates reaction are all amalgamated together and meant to work out, but more often I see events hang dryly in the air before me with no meaningful beginning and no end. And rather than follow a driven trajectory, they just materialize and then disappear, suspended in the air for a fleeting moment only to be dissolved and dismantled the next with no legacy of their existence. And. I can't have that. Part of me needs to believe in something more. I want to trust that old mantra of everything happening for a reason. Of it never being the end until everything works out. And the idea that everything will work out. You know, something nice like that.


Kept walking for an hour until the police cleared the parking lot and the mild chaos of the dead boy was over.