He got that tedious, mind-numbing housework, such as dusting inconspicuous nooks and vacuuming untrammeled areas of carpet and scrubbing linoleum floors that didn't look clean afterward, going hard in rooms upon which one could easily and satisfactorily close the door--the ridiculous, absurd battle with Nature insubordinate to no one and no thing--had to transpire every once in a while, but he knew that deep down, he equated it with madness, and therefore never willingly participated in this kind of activity, though sometimes underwent the trauma of it all for the sake of love.
His daily life-experience was best described by a persistent thought which tried to filter its way through his head as he walked along Michigan Avenue, how each car in this morning's rush hour seemed to flow directly into him and disappear within the dark, echoing forests of his past instead of harmlessly passing by him, as if he were a portal from which nothing ever returned, though the image of every object hovered before his face, in his wide line of vision, as if on the event horizon of a massive black hole, making it difficult for him to see what was coming and where he was going.
Comments
Post a Comment