Choking on my own overdramatic melancholia.

It’s early morning and the sun is rolling over the horizon, as if Sisyphus had changed to something new, kicked the dung beetle of the hill and grabbed the glowing ball with fresh enthusiasm. But somehow it’s hard to get out of bed, to put my feet on the rug free floor. Outside a flock of birds has gathered on the wire, singing tunes unknown to any man, songs only found on radio stations unreachable to us all. Flakes of paint are hanging from the sealing, ready to fall to the floor and the autumn is preparing a subpoena for plagiarism as we speak. It tells the story of undone work. If I don’t get up soon, the flakes will cover me up like leaves on a dead squirrel in the park. I sit up and a breeze caresses my feet like a pestering kitten, horny for attention. But I manage. I do get out of bed.

The next scene is filled with the smell of poorly grinded coffee and even though I enjoy the smell, I can’t drink it, I don’t have the will to poor it down my throat. I light a cigarette as the caffeine filled brew is getting cold and my cat starts to play with my feet, still trying to seduce me without any luck. I just sit there, smoking, trying to decide what to do, trying to not sit around all day and when the time comes I slip out of my fluffy slippers and step outside, into the sun, into the sweating heat. I don’t have no place to go really, all I do is walk slowly down the road and try to look casual, as if this stroll is of importance but this pace fools no one, I have nowhere to go to.

The road to nowhere is going slow, dirty dogs bark at my slow pacing, they don’t understand me at all, but I’m not bothered by them, I just have no place to go to. At the end of the dry road I stop and wait, can’t decide what I’m supposed to do, have no will to decide. So instead I lay down under a tree to catch some shade, light another cigarette and search the clouds for hope, for comic strips, for newsworthy bullshit. A car comes by and asks if I need a ride but all I want to do is catch some shade. All day I stay under this tree, entertained by the nothing happening in front of me. It’s hard, actually, be entertained outside my head these days and when my head feels this empty, I mean, what else is there. I just listen to the birds singing, the dogs barking and the cars vrooming by, staying here forever, in this dried up hole of a place, under the tree, with no feelings at all, having made no decision, made no plans. I have nowhere to go, there are no more roads to be walked, no more shades to be sought. This place, where I sit right now, is all that is left of the world.