Stream of Consciousness.

I don’t know how we found it in the middle of all this blue nothingness, but that little piece of home was just what I needed. I just wanted to be near the rain again, the real haze grey. Ocean as far as you can see, covered in a dense white fog rolling in from nowhere. Passage of time and space irrelevant. ‘In transit’ is vague at best. Down the rabbit hole to a groundhog’s day existence, for the next eternity of your life. There is no future, no past, just now. And I keep thinking… I’ll leave that part out. The phrase ‘a vast expanse’ could not have a better illustration. I just wanted to be near the rain, to hear that pitterpatter, feel the cool wet breeze, and smell that sweetness. I would have settled for the sour salt, but that was absent too. And so it stands, water upon water has no smell. I suppose I miss the smell of the earth, the feel of your arms.

 

It was good to be alone for a moment, out of the three rings of this never ending zoo. Evolution? Ha, yeah right. I wish Darwin had been right. We’d be a leaner, meaner species for it. It was the good kind of alone, not the lonely alone. It was a soothing quiet, except for the desperate-sounding fog blasts. And even those were a mellow, melancholy interruption. I can still hear the rain in my head, where it is also gray and dreary. I could never live somewhere it didn’t rain. In the south, with the big fat drops that soaked you in thirty seconds and the booming thunder and crackles of lightning; or in the northwest with its quiet, constant drizzle. Dear God, don’t take me away. In my heaven it will be raining, haha.

 

One of these days I suppose everything will make sense. And if I’m lucky, I will have few regrets. I still have time to correct most of the ones I do have. I just want to stand out and be appreciated—but for the right things, the things that matter. Not, “serving your country” and all that patriotic hogwash. I want to be important; I want to be the best at something. But in my quest for perfection, I only manage a shambling, half-assed forgery at anything and everything. The things I really enjoy seem so trivial and inconsequential. It’s strange to think about this place-time I’m in… so hard to look forward, so hard to look back, trying to think about looking back from the future. This has become a philosophical ramble, and no longer about the things that matter.

 

What matters? Sharing, I guess. Sharing and caring. Too many walls, I am deficient; I don’t do enough of either. So many hopes and dreams and ideas, but nothing comes naturally. How do any of us make any progress? If I were a computer, I would need infinitesimal processors to accomplish life. So how is it that I’m not a complete failure? Because I can look at myself and realize that I am inadequate. Maybe that is my one saving grace.

 

Fuck you, life; fuck you and your sentience.