Colorless
Colorlessness. The sense of the prefect color. Peace and tranquility as the world moves on… away from him. He looks around and sees the cars and trucks engaged in their purposeful tracks, the zealots in their pursuit for gilt. The colorless gasses, light, voices…thoughts killing you slowly day by day.
His bike’s flirting with the 100s and suddenly he realizes that he has been pushing the self destruct button a lot lately. Not a great realization when you are riding at 100 and are only faintly present in the present. And your hands and legs are frozen. Anyway no brake is going to stop that routine circle until it collapses in its own gravity. But the silence of this moment is deafening and the darkness blinding.
To the cynic every sense is misplaced, even his sense of cynicism. There is that part of him that wants the brakes to be applied, the one that wants to see a sense devoid of indifference, but the breeding is too ingrained now to be killed by simple wishing. The idea of second chances appeals to him, but after seeing though the mask it’s too hard for him to go back to believing the lies. It’s hard to once again remember god’s face when you have been face to face with the Satan himself. But he is convinced it’s the other way around in his case.
And it is this mask less world that he sees all around. In shattered glasses lying on the highway, the last signs of the genesis of a lifelong disability. In the stoned gazes from the shaded glasses of the new aged diners, trying to remember (forget?) a night filled with disguised sadness. In the mirror of his own urine falling down creating an unfamiliar face staring back at him.
Is it too late for him to bypass the answering machine culture, filled with urgent conversations but nothing communicated? A world he now sees naked in all its brilliant, disgusting glory.
