:: Disambiguation ::

Time has become a tricky little fucker for me―it is a nonspatial continuum where designated motions are prescribed with prosaic labels ('eating', 'drinking', 'hanging out', 'meeting' et al) so that with moderate sense and random knowledge, I'm able to function.

That's one of my biggest failings, I guess―the fact that I'm more passionate about being a narrator than a participant to life. That way I can go on pretending that this life, this world, is nothing more or less than a giant pandemic accident―we are not made by religious deliverance, we are not accounted by cosmic calculations, and hence we are nothing (nothing!) except a beautiful mistake, a happenstance of sheer dumb luck.

Wouldn't that be something? Humanity reduced to nothing but a linear narrative. Life is a slapdash chance, and death is a chronological certainty.

I'm tired. Why live, when you can write?

***

But then I stare at my screen, and the cursor flutters at me like an antiseptic eye; my mind is filled with the white noise of nothingness. I'm bored and placid. I am feeding off the light of Europe still―it's like an ultraviolet suicide―I suck off the essence from my modicum memories and I become drained and dry.

My reality is tinged with the sepia song of necessary routine. My memories of that short break―now a week away―are rustling with a sonorous spectrum, and I want more more more. What a spoilt child I am sometimes, when it comes to life.

And what is this that they say―only time will tell―what a crass assumption! Time doesn't tell, and it most certainly doesn't heal: time is a quack doctor who plasters amnesia over wounds. Time is an irreversible succession of no value. As the clownfaced clock that is life ticks with cruel merritment to its unbending rhythm, we are being dragged along like lambs to the altar.

Can I be your prodigal son too?