Waste Of Time
The coffee is cold.
He sets the cup down on the table. Watches the ripples on the surface. Black waves. White shimmers.
Black. White.
Black and white.
Blackandwhiteandblack.
His eyes close. He leans his head back, trying to feel the warmth of the sun. Confirm its reality.
The world is veined and red behind his eyelids.
He takes deep breath, holds it as long as possible before it must be expelled from his body. He listens intently to the pounding racing through his system, the pulse of veiled lids.
He regains his breath and opens his eyes. Watches the flecks of light at the edge of his vision, like stars. Looks at the table.
He’s dreaming.
He must be dreaming. A bloody heart is sitting on the table, twitching.
Stars are still dancing across his eyes. His gaze darts around the small cafe, the patrons, the staff, the pedestrians.
But no one else seems to notice the oddity of a human heart bleeding in broad daylight.
It’s red. Black red. The deepest red that comes from internal organs.
Blackandwhite.
Blackandwhiteandred.
everything will end
He can’t move. His arms are too heavy. His legs weightless, immaterial. Inversely proportional gravity. Immovable object.
The heart stops twitching.
Lifeless.
Muscle and tissue. Protons, electrons, neutrons. Atoms. Meaningless mass.
It’s just simply there. Taking up space, occupying it as though it has the right. It just sits there on the table, not knowing that its purpose is gone, that it is now defunct, obsolete.
His eyes burn.
The dream blurs and fades, as though it never was.
He feels the heat of the mid-day sun. Pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. An exhalation of breath, not unlike laughter, reaches his ears.
Everyone around him is smiling. Not everyone. The young. Children. A girl grins at him, dark hair messy and face full of wonder.
a waste of time
It doesn’t mean anything.
He knows this. The words. Words don’t mean anything.
Unless they do.
He sees their faces.
A woman coming home from the market – his wife. Shattered glass at their wedding. A boy kicks a makeshift ball down the street – his son. Tall and proud at his bar mitzvah.
Their bodies progress through time, growing old, feeble. Empty flesh buried in the ground.
Rotting. Ash.
Inconsequential dust.
He can’t breathe.
There isn’t enough air, there isn’t enough time, there is no time.
devoid of hope
Which is nonsense. His body fights for oxygen instinctively. He lets it. Thinks on the nature of truth.
Truth is a wife and son. A house and a garden. Work and a car and money. Truth is the sweat on his face, words buzzing in his ear, children smiling.
Emotions are true. Senses are true.
Science is true. The truth of man’s existence.
The true man. Truman.
White smile on a black face.
White and black. Blackandwhiteand –
He brings the coffee to his mouth. Takes another sip.
It’s cold.
fin
He sets the cup down on the table. Watches the ripples on the surface. Black waves. White shimmers.
Black. White.
Black and white.
Blackandwhiteandblack.
His eyes close. He leans his head back, trying to feel the warmth of the sun. Confirm its reality.
The world is veined and red behind his eyelids.
He takes deep breath, holds it as long as possible before it must be expelled from his body. He listens intently to the pounding racing through his system, the pulse of veiled lids.
He regains his breath and opens his eyes. Watches the flecks of light at the edge of his vision, like stars. Looks at the table.
He’s dreaming.
He must be dreaming. A bloody heart is sitting on the table, twitching.
Stars are still dancing across his eyes. His gaze darts around the small cafe, the patrons, the staff, the pedestrians.
But no one else seems to notice the oddity of a human heart bleeding in broad daylight.
It’s red. Black red. The deepest red that comes from internal organs.
Blackandwhite.
Blackandwhiteandred.
everything will end
He can’t move. His arms are too heavy. His legs weightless, immaterial. Inversely proportional gravity. Immovable object.
The heart stops twitching.
Lifeless.
Muscle and tissue. Protons, electrons, neutrons. Atoms. Meaningless mass.
It’s just simply there. Taking up space, occupying it as though it has the right. It just sits there on the table, not knowing that its purpose is gone, that it is now defunct, obsolete.
His eyes burn.
The dream blurs and fades, as though it never was.
He feels the heat of the mid-day sun. Pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. An exhalation of breath, not unlike laughter, reaches his ears.
Everyone around him is smiling. Not everyone. The young. Children. A girl grins at him, dark hair messy and face full of wonder.
a waste of time
It doesn’t mean anything.
He knows this. The words. Words don’t mean anything.
Unless they do.
He sees their faces.
A woman coming home from the market – his wife. Shattered glass at their wedding. A boy kicks a makeshift ball down the street – his son. Tall and proud at his bar mitzvah.
Their bodies progress through time, growing old, feeble. Empty flesh buried in the ground.
Rotting. Ash.
Inconsequential dust.
He can’t breathe.
There isn’t enough air, there isn’t enough time, there is no time.
devoid of hope
Which is nonsense. His body fights for oxygen instinctively. He lets it. Thinks on the nature of truth.
Truth is a wife and son. A house and a garden. Work and a car and money. Truth is the sweat on his face, words buzzing in his ear, children smiling.
Emotions are true. Senses are true.
Science is true. The truth of man’s existence.
The true man. Truman.
White smile on a black face.
White and black. Blackandwhiteand –
He brings the coffee to his mouth. Takes another sip.
It’s cold.
fin
