I’d finally gotten a half-way decent sleep last night, meaning that I was somewhat refreshed upon waking. I went out for some coffee and returned to plot breakfast. And can you imagine the sweet sound of birdsong, coursing on air, the fluttering of their wings as they shot, branch to branch, their lives so wrought with nature’s mystery of meaning? After eating I had business to attend to: the demons of student loan hell had been hunting me, looking to break my kneecaps or something. I had to try and plead, to beg for my life, since I hadn’t quite started making the money I thought higher education would bring.
I went to the grocery store later, to get some stuff for lunches. Don’t know why I felt agitated; possibly the medication, or the fact that I’d forgotten to bring the Red Box DvD with me for return. And I thought on the seasons past, when glittering stars would align while others, composing wondrous backgrounds, would shimmer soaring across the night sky, leaving behind their trailing streaks for me to wish upon. How did hope, and plans, and dreams, how did they feel so alive, thriving with vitality? When I got back, my neighbor asked if I could come over and help him with his computer. The guy’s a bit of an old fella, not too bright either, so you know how these things go; it was a pleasure to help.
The afternoon was spent slicing lettuce and fruit, listening to music on YouTube as I thought about the pending work week. Were the days really starting to blur into each other? After the troubles I’d gone through, and then making what life repairs I could, was it really the answer to all of my life questions, a full-time job? My how the clouds can gather, the plains below thick with their grasses and the mud, where the throng of life crawls like all those moments of confusion when you wonder as growing child, where am I going? Will everything be okay? I kept cutting the items at my cutting board until I realized I was done, and that I needed to make a decision as to what I should do afterwards, after my preparations for the work week were complete.
My place is so incredibly small that to complain is quite out of the question. I had thought to move when I had the chance but curiously enough, the chance never materialized. Eventually I had to come to terms with the fact that I live in a city where the wall between the rich and the poor towers, that there’s no way through. I know what side of the wall I’m on, and that’s okay. Life isn’t all about money. What I thought about doing, as I sat there, peering through the blinds of my one and only window, was confronting the man with the key to the chains. He keeps it bound up with all of his others, a ring of keys shiny and carefully guarded, for when he turns them fresh in their tumblers, he hopes with all of the power of his sardonic grin, that he won’t have to use them ever again.