Untitled #1

Beyond the window screen rests the world. The two squirrels that usually chased each other around the tree are sleeping. Exhausted from the endless game of tag. The flowers have closed their petals, shying away from the moon, as though embarrassed to show their face. The wind blows softly in the sultry summer evening. And then the rain begins to fall.

The boy watches it all from inside. Although it is nearly impossible to see any of it, he knows it is there. He turns on some light music to break the silence. As he mills about his room, he sings along. He doesn't mind that his voice isn't perfect. He doesn't mind that his voice is carrying. He's enjoying himself, and that's all that matters.

As he watches from the window, the faint, soothing smell of ozone and rain floats in through the window. The boy sits back down and sighs. He has the beginnings of a headache. And he begins to cry. He cries until his cheeks are red and hot and soaking wet.

For he has realized that's it's all fruitless. It's beauty in the shit. And that is all it is; shit. No one will remember him when he dies. No one will notice his absence a few years later. He hasn't done anything noteworthy, nor will he in his entire lifetime. It's just one smooth line to a bleak finish. His superficial relationships will mean nothing when he is dead and gone. Time is redundant. All the races are simply racing to one big finish. So then what's the point of hanging around anymore?

And then it hits him. It doesn't matter in the end. It matters in life. There may be no life after death, no heaven, no reincarnation, but it doesn't matter. There is no point in being miserable during a point in your life when you should be having the time of your life. Slowly, the boy regains his composure. He wipes away his tears. He is firm in his resolution; he will continue existing simply for the pleasure of existing.

"Damn it," he thinks, "All this crying has made my headache even worse."