Stream of consciousness

Labile. Volatile. This moment, happily enslaved by the promise of happiness. That moment, staring in the mirror at what might in its erstwhile days have been recognized as his humanity. Delusional days. Empty nights. Protracted periods spent trying to discern sharp and familiar shapes in the blind blur of rotating blades of the old fan in his old room. Followed by feverish weeks spent blowing the dust away from all the old books, in his old box, immersed between their pages, taking in every word as the gospel truth. Born again, dead again. Uniformly non-uniform. Regularly insane. Seasons of abstinence, interrupted by bacchanal binges. Learning to unlearn. Going in circles. Confused by moments of clarity. Happily sad and then sadly happy. Painfully aware, blissfully unaware. Longing for love, liberated by love, bound by love, loathful love. Liberated to lose bearings. Drunk on life. Thirsty for life.
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All nice things are for future. Feed the present to the future. Squeeze it of all life, drain its blood out. Let ghosts from the future haunt the crap out of the present with their fake allure and false promise.
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They continue to stare. Innocuously - tiny, round and pink. Pink! That makes him smile. It was ironical that they were pink, he had thought once upon a time. Now of course, it makes sense. Pink is appropriate. In any case, they are staring. Together, with their collective might, tugging at his fast melting resolve. 20 of them. Pop them - 10 at a time, 20 at a time. The more the merrier. Ignorance packed in tiny, little, pink things carrying with them the promise of bliss. Can perfect knowledge be packed so compactly too?
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