nausea

The sun was so bright that even when he closed his eyes, he had to squint.  The sun was coming through them, a brilliant blood colored blindfold.  He knew though, that the light would be good for him, make him feel better.  It's not a one-dose sort of thing, but he felt it was appropriate as he was in Florida, and it was necessary to make the best of the trip.  No matter what small things he changed, no matter what ideals he tried to embrace, what activities he tried to engage, nothing would change the truth.  Like wishing and praying to have something un-done, the whole of it was absurd.  He wasn't happy and he wasn't going to be.

For all he loved, and appreciated, and wanted nothing more than the satisfaction of victories and successes for her, he couldn't find a way to dream with her.  She criticized his wholeheartedly sincere thinking as "magical" and though she crossed many lines, he forgave her because of all that he had done that necessitated understanding and forgiveness.  A great mystery for him though was how and why she didn't want something else as much as he did.  She seemed committed to making that which doesn't -- do.  If that wasn't magical it was just plain insane.

What did he want though?  Did he want to bounce along the floors of bus and train stations, copping a flight here or there with no money, no reservation, and no familiar faced friend or host?  That was his dominion in his 20s, but it felt that as time moved along, the serendipity, the perfect grace that bouyed him so long as he kept faith was evaporating.  If he reduced it logically, he could, if he felt, attribute the whole death of spirit, the whole sad vexation and vacuum of true happiness to women.  He needed to be alone.  Just him.  No one to be loved by and no one to love.  This is what he needed, above all.  When he found it, he would surely have to contend with creeping thoughts about the mistake it is, the loss he would someday have to acknowledge.  Like any game of chance, your next iteration is not guaranteed in any way.

Whenever he spoke the truth, the real truth, it caused dischord.  Even when he tried to break the formulaic sexuality with the counter-formulaic spontaneity so obvious, it invariably failed due to one or another reasons. The horse was dead, though he was compelled to pretend otherwise.  He was broken himself.  For three years he had been dead in the water as a man.

Barely working, in medical institutions, and now chained to a daily regimen of pharmaceutical narcotics.  To extricate from this one, he would have to return to the unknown and unfeared life he knew.  The plan?  To do away with these damned plans.  They were worse than foresight for a man's spirit.  You may have heard that, according to Greek creation myth, when man was made he was given the ability to see into the future.  He knew when he would fall in love, become a father, make a handsome life, a home, or, and this became a problem, when the fates had some tragedy in store for him.  It was clear to him as hindsight is to us when he would get sick, when those he loved would die, when his efforts would fail, and when he himself would find his end.  There was no room for hope, or faith, or joy.  The gods mercifully took this Promethean vision away, and left us with the Epimethian brother of hindsight so that we can learn from our mistakes.

So he made his offering to the gods and petitioned them to smite the endless wretched planning.  Anyway, there seems to be a thing for man eating his words.  He knew well that plans were at best amusing to the gods, and that it was a haughty and arrogant vanity to the cosmically minded fool.