I don't know about you but I think about all things insignificant all the time. It's not good or bad, it doesn't feel like good or bad. But the thing is I sit at the dinner table at night o'clock and i hear the creaking of the boxy refrigerator that has 2 decades under it's belt and it it creaks like a see-saw, I sit at the dinner table and i draw speech bubbles over every sentence my parents say and suddenly they are dialogues, I sit at the dinner table and I still don't know where I'm supposed to keep my eyes when I chew, so i stare at the white light from across me, it is like the sun if the sun was a whole lot of nothing but white, nothing but light, nothing but- It is a thing, just not warm alright. The thing is we are essentially alone, my right leg bounces up and down and I count the number of times it does, when I'm not thinking about the way we are essentially alone. It atleast feels that way?
There is a hearse in the kitchen light, it's a very elaborate hearse. It looks like a mangled truck like funeral vehicles often do. Silvery gray and fading, a red blue siren on it's roof, like a mocking emergency. Ambulances are an emergency, firetrucks and police vans that cut through traffic are an emergency, funeral vehicles are not. The white light makes my eyes burn, a hearse, somewhat white, it's backside made of glass. It is made of glass so you could see the whites of the bedding through the panes, so that the light inside the demodulated truck scatters like another cold sun, like the kitchen light, maybe it's the winter fog, maybe it's a misnomer. And the thing is we are essentially alone, and i'm not just saying it because of death. Death is a thing that happens, and people die alone, and funeral processions have their own brand of loneliness, because you hear all the crying and wailing and screaming and stand in the middle of some road that's not even your hometown at 2 am, and watch the hearse drive away, white and unblinking into the kitchen light, and i'm not just saying it because of death- maybe I am but that's not true.
You are alone in death and alone in living, and sometimes you feel a bit more sad, a bit more stranded about it but it's a paltry thing to dwell on. But you and I are essentially alone, even on days when your best friend sits with you in class, even when it doesn't feel like it, even where there is laughter and ambition and holding your baby cousin's hand when she is just learning to walk. The truth of it isn't a conclusion, it hangs there like it means nothing, and like most things it doesn't mean anything to think about at all. But my right leg bounces up and down, and there is hole in my center that's supposed to be there, eating me alive, and that's supposed to be the conclusion, that is the hypothesis and it sure doesn't feel like any of it.
