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To do something seems useless.
I’m told we’re going to die.
Every moment spent awake, I know that effort is for nothing.
Effort will disappear. It will slip from the memory of the one that loved you and the one that you loved. It will slip from your family, your neighbors, the shopkeepers on your street. Your cat. You will stop. Your efforts will stop and your efforts will disappear. Then what? I know this will happen. Then what?
I don’t feel depressed by this news. I can still wake up and go to work. Mostly, I’m unable to decide what to do in the meantime. What is worth the effort when considering these circumstances? It’s not about choosing something I love over something I don’t love.
No…
This requires a bit of chicanery. A slight of hand. Because even what I love will die. What are the things that don’t know about the gatekeeper of my impending doom? Who are the ones that don’t know about my complete and total absence? I’ve noticed many of us want this. We all do. We all want to see the papers on the ones who are in charge.
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I’ll take some pictures, tape them together. I’ll make a movie. Then I could tell this story and you would see your own impending doom. The face of the one in charge. The one who for ages has told us: “Because I said so.”
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Time moves like a broken branch. Moments bounce forward, while our memory sniffs and tastes at the air, disorienting us from our pasts. We watch the color of the sky change from blue to black to blue and blue again. Sucked from our bones and our muscles and our flesh, our blood hurdles towards space, coagulating into glistening drops of crimson and blue, that splat against the tips of frozen, sooty mountain peaks and summits that rise, balancing in the dark, like awkward, haphazard time. Like a broken tree branch – sad and weighted and surrounded by an air with a terrible chill. We taste our most favorite piece of chocolate and we sit in a swing that sails us close to space. We watch the color of the sky change from blue to black to blue and blue again.
Guards stand on these mountains, stationed like statues. They are called Centenaurs. They wear breastplates and large boulder helmets that reveal only the steely eyes of their Centenaur presence. The tips of their swords are poisoned and bitter and poke at your fingers, stubby and trembling from the cold and your fatigue. They have stood there forever. They guard this space with their lives. They travel this mountain with a confident gait.
This scene doesn’t end with a fight. After awhile, you’ll realize you can’t rally once more with tiny, bloody fists at the Centenaurs’ swords every time they push you down into the ground, again and again and again and again.
It’s worthless.
After some time, you realize effort is for nothing.
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