Discuss It Further I Shall Not

The day started with a room, the room began with an idea, just as the
Word had begun with God, as the Word was God.

But discuss it further I shall not. No tale since has been so apt to
garner my appreciation as that of the day in particular, haunting,
scolding my knowledge and interest, as if I felt unnerved by its tepid
tragedy. Pitiful persistence carried forward as so predicted,
pertaining to my personal necessity regarding cognizance, sanction,
comfort, principally recognized competence.

While focused on the subject, I must mention how striking my
receptivity maintains despite my growing age, or rather: my aging
growth. Tense, my hands were as they gripped the steering wheel; they
and I all sensed the dreaded fate that which was eerily upon us. As
the stoplight turned a nasty green, my ears could only gather the
sight of an oncoming threat, incoming danger, terrific destruction,
and then complete isolation. A loneliness devoid of comfort or
intellectual discussion. The cousin of Death. Then whiteness.
Bright.

As the female physician would casually strut over to tell me, and as I
had already mostly gathered, my initial response to casually swerve
away from our fellow vehicle moment before the collision may have very
well singularly allowed for our existence to carry forth undisrupted.
No fractures, no losses. No pain. Naturally, the maid invited us to
leave the hospital (though I had consistently argued the fact that
three weeks of motionless, dormant comfort following such a
devastating accident barely allowed for the commencement of
self-recovery); naturally the biddy insisted our departure, naturally
insisting my cursory instincts to shove the bird in her stinking face
and christen her a mighty “c-word.”

Instead, I exhausted my final carefree hours to intelligently dissect
the worth of a single, candid day. Concentrated, the mind can
circumstantially prove to be quite a powerful device, a knowledgable
friend and colleague. Imprinted memories and tools by which to
perceive sight manage within an equal workspace, and here my mind
served me ample evidence as to my own reinforcement of life through
congenital reflex. Ah, the events that had transpired only a number
of weeks ago! How eventful that day had been. And yet here existed
another day, placed at the disposal of whomever thought intellectually
enough to dispose of it. However, it occurred to me that one life
consists of a set number of days, and through each disposal promises a
shortened implied countdown.

And thus it was in that hideously bleak hospital, surrounded by the
wretched sick and dying where a realisation suddenly dawned on my own
intellectual friend and colleague: to fully experience life as a
commendable collection of memories and transpired events, one must
award each second of the day to experiencing some new and exciting
chaos, lest he be regretful and disappointed by the end of his … his
righteous journey. Never having been a religious man, my realistic
ideas of the world only further complimented my abrupt awareness of
our limited life. So I voluntarily exited the hospital and returned
to the more appetizing comfort of my own home — on foot, of course,
for my previous driving instance resulted in quite the headache —
where I poured myself half a glass of pulp-free OJ, fixed up a bologna
sandwich on white bread, a circle of mustard delicately drawn over top
the aging meat, and sat and enjoyed both my satisfying meal and my
favorite Thursday night program (a procedural cop drama).

Returning to my own bedroom, the images of that horrific day
disturbingly returned to my mind, causing my legs to swell and jerk.
They gave and I fell to the dry carpet, my hands caressing its soft
texture as if massaging my brain, my eyes spewing tears, my brow
furrowing, my mouth quivering and exhaling loud, harsh gasps as my
ears all but sat and stared as the sobs continued on for another
twenty minutes. My stomach felt much lighter after regaining my
footing. My mouth more, mmmm lethargic. Skull looser. It was
decided then, I would take the following day off to rest. The tragic
accident had simply placed too much emotional stress on my psyche.
Maintaining my composure, my legs dawdled over to the bedside table.
Situated on top was my bedside lamp, of course, which I bought
specifically for late-night reading. I switched on the lamp, set down
my belongings, stripped, fashioned our robe out from the dark closet,
grabbed the television remote, plopped down on top of my bed, we
situated ourselves under the covers, and fell fast asleep. It was
then the closet door swung open and its blackness escaped at a
phlegmatic pace towards the hall. The vicious claws of wretched
silence clenched at drawers, ripping apart the room, then celebrated
their destruction. My eyes flew open but saw only a dark room which I
called my own, which I called comfortable and warm. The bed covers
wrapped over and around the body, ours. My legs and hands stood at
attention, tight. My chest expanded, harshly. A dream. The
following morning, a piercing, pounding rap came from behind the
closet door, impatiently pleading for permitted entrance; a cacophony
of forced howls and unpleasant clouts early in the day.

But discuss it further I shall not.