:: Pathos ::

I am a rhetoric of rational irrationality today. Today―my yesterdays are pale and yellow, and all my tomorrows are secret and irrelevant. So there's only today, a hyperbole of sterile routines and prudent passions―a dormant vocalno, waiting to erupt.

Was Shakespeare right then? That the day you were born marks the moment you start to die. With this knowledge―heyho, you're a dead man now, this very moment; you could be kissing the woman of your dreams, you could be holding the hand of your firstborn, you could be sharing a Delphian romance with a feisty lover―doesn't matter, you're already dead. With this knowledge, would you do more? Would a 9-to-6 job keep you? Would a marriage? Would anything really count, if your life is nothing more than a panoramic train shuttling down the tunnel of time, its schedule unknown, but its destination is an immotile nail rigged to God's timetable?

It's the rain. The sky is crying with lassitude. I'm lulled; my mind is asleep. My work is nothing but a strangled syllable in the giddy vocabulary of life. Why can't I be excited―what is extinguished―who are you?

***

1.29 p.m: I wanted to abandon my heels and my files and run into the rain. I'm so full of hippie lust sometimes, a heterodox dropout from an oddball universe. Who is my flowerchild god today? What is today's specials on the cosmic menu? This is the street with no name, this little chasm of my life, where I'm a dissident of my past emotions, and a separatist from my current ambitions. I am happy but discoloured, at peace but bristling with abandon.

Who cares about flying to the fucking moon. I just want to fly.