Another Manic Monday

This late Monday night malaise has struck suddenly and out of nowhere. It was day and then the sun disappeared while I showered and vacuumed my room. The sun promised so much today, so bright and long arcing, so sure of its glory, and then tip-toes away like a thief, or like a beautiful thing leaving too early from a bar, before there is time, even, to buy it a drink. The darkness went from purple to black, but I didn't notice that either. I don't much feel like going out; it's past the hour of such decisions anyway. I am alone of course. The television is absolutely unwatchable. It is somehow both excruciatingly painful and all-together numbing. Mind rape. On the counter there is a bowl of undercooked spaghetti undergoing an unidentity crisis, hot supper or forgotten leftovers. The spaghetti must feel like those poor humans born on the cusp of two zodiac signs, at war with itself forever. The spaghetti smells likes nothing. The apartment is stale and quiet, not even wind enough to make the windowsills whistle, or a loud movie from the downstairs neighbors to defeat the refrigerator's intermittent din. Since turning off the television I've just been sitting here, allowing my thoughts to run in circles, unleashed like Labradors at the park. Which is okay. Calm. But the contents of my mind, having spilled out my ears and onto the rug, have left the old eggshell a bit hollowed out. And I'm left to scraping at the musk covered husk.

On account of the cerebral void, eventually I am vaulted involuntarily into a conscious world I'd rather avoid. Somewhere beneath the flotsam of daily minutia, which for now has been hacked away with this mixed metaphor like a slag hammer, is a deep and frigid ocean of liquid thought. The mind swells with such waters, you know? And they so often remain unexplored, grave and alien creatures, drastic landscapes, unbearable pressure, sheer darkness. Who of you have traveled such places before? Hands. Surely we all go there from time to time, no? On our own accord, at random or pensive times as now, or taken there by the hand of recreational drugs or by dreams (although I'd say the oneiric experience is a whole nother pancake entirely – whatever). In any case, come with me on a dive down here for a spell and laugh, as I do, at the absurdity of it.

At first sight it appears that everything at these depths is colored in a profound light (or non-light as it were). Things begin to get heavy, on account of our depth and the corresponding fluid-pressure, and as the descent continues the surroundings turn poignant, then depressing. An anglerfish picks a banjo and sings a bluegrass ballad about his long bygone belle from Birmingham. Existential eels quote Kierkegaard to nihilistic needlefish. Pressure mounting still. It is like being buried beneath wheelbarrow loads of sentiment sediment. Cliches drift in these parts like parasitic microbes. See that one there? Who cares anyway, it's just dust in the wind. Cosmic metaphors swim by with sharp teeth and chromatic scales. Universal truths tread water amongst remembered dreams like clown fish amongst anemones. Irony rips across the far above surface on a Sea-Doo, too far from here to be seen. This is where Buddhists come to meditate and new-agers come to experiment with alternative medicines. I will suffocate down here if this lasts much longer.

It's midnight already? I'm going to bed.