Meaningless Desperation

I went to the park to think about life. I sat under the cherry blossoms and watched them fall. The grass was an exquisite green, brighter than anything I could ever create. It was an unattainable green.

I reflected on the fact that I couldn’t breathe as I sucked up the cool spring air like fruit juice.  I thought about how the world was crowded with too many ugly things as the smell of flowers and salty sea was distilled into space. I could feel the clammy fatigue of winter, of indoor life slipping away, but I clung on with sweaty fingers to a frantic lethargy. 

I hadn’t brought much, no book, no paper; only myself and a superfluous coat which I refused to remove, silently validating my shivering. I wished that the broken rhythm of life would dissipate on the spring breeze. I hoped that would become floral and nothing else. I waited for completion. It didn’t want any half-ass refreshment. I didn’t want a vacation. I prayed with the clawing desperation of the conscious for absolute nothingness. Meaningless, godless nothingness.