Pat Gunn (dachte) wrote,
Pat Gunn
dachte

It's a kind of second-grade sadness

Not a prime sadness, but rather the kind of sadness you'd buy at K-Mart. I got home from work today, exhausted as usual from the weekend shift, and took a nice long bath. It was pretty good -- on weber I lacked a bathtub, whereas here I have a massive deep tub that I can almost fit all of myself in. And as this is a stand alone tub, I can put my feet up over the rim and hang them down, and kind of be suspended there in the tub by my knees and head. It's really great. Except I had a headache that had persisted in one form or another since 11am that morning. I hate headaches -- they seem to plague me recently.

I'm just rolling along in life, I guess. A motor, going put-puff while treading across the surface of this red, dusty planet. There are some other similar machines, a brain, a jar, and a motor, driving across the sand endlessly. It is a kind of private hell, manufactured by decay. Who would've thought that the communication would break down? Cheap parts, best intentions. What was at first glorious, a society of brain-tanks, with games, discussion, and life, has, stripped of the ability to truly communicate, devolved into a slow ramp down into insanity. Each unit, when encountering another unit, cannot do anything but feel sorry for another member of this massive hell. They drive past each other in silence, their quiet weeping only a metaphor.

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