notes from the couch
The first thing I heard this morning were birds chirping. A lyrically deceiving sound on the first day of January. But, in the middle of winter, it was as though a nest of eggs hatched prematurely--but ready. Perhaps they possess an aviary sense for doom, like a canary in a mine when the gas rises. And perhaps knowing that Spring isn't guaranteed this year, the baby birds chose to live while they still have time, and they reached through their shell towards the light.
And they sang with glory upon their first --and perhaps final-- breath.
And that sky grew morose today. It is early afternoon, and the sun has yet to make an appearance. The sky is a heavy grey like smoke rising slowly after an air strike. And the aftermath settled, just below the horizon of where one would assume the sun rests.
I can see human bodies reflecting reversely above and against the grey glare, and they are scattered in mind and spirit. It appears that their souls were removed or altogether disintegrated, and now all that is visible are the empty casks of flesh shuttering in slow motion upon these long cement tongues of cold intersections and heckling crossroads.
And in pursuit of a proper burial, the people here open doors leading to rooms without windows. They seal envelopes without addresses. And make phone calls from serviceless phone booths. And these white rooms are sterile: they are kept at just above freezing and contain no furniture. Without choice, the people climb into the scorched light sockets to escape the unnerving silence that echoes in the vast claustrophobia of their own minds.
And following that maze through an underground paradise, the walls are papered in foil. Metallic images of unclaimed dreams are drawn in marker by children.
And the melancholy ache of a desire to return to a place for which you've never been ascends.
As the people struggle along the narrowing corridor of this new Hell, they smear the drawings with their broken shoulders, and the colors seep into a brown smudge of forgotten hope.
And that is where it all ends.