That Thing's a Joke

The same crappy song plays over and over again in my head; imaginary fingernails scratch at the insides of my brain, trying to claw away the repetitive melody and cheesy, base lyrics. A boy looks across the room and thinks, “The girl’s hair falls over her shoulders with such destined precision, each strand growing from the root in a deliberate way. Each time she blinks, her lashes feel the weight of ten pounds, each little sigh each flutter of speech, perfect.” And I think, “Nothing is right here.” Every motion around me, every heinous spout of laughter escaping the hung open mouths of glued-together people isn’t really there, it isn’t even real. They started out as millions of little pieces, and it really was only by chance that they were glued together in this way. It’s like the Matrix and I’m trapped in this glued-together body too while I examine the obliviousness of each mechanical movement around me. The space of my existence is five and a half feet tall, and about a foot wide. He thinks, “This is the greatest night of my life; I am 20 years old, and it’s only going to get worse from here, so, damnit, I’m going to enjoy it. Because being young is the only thing that matters….and her hair. And her hair. And even the little baby hairs on her arms are perfectly placed and I could go on and on and on…” And the music goes on; according to anyone still conscious, not lying on the couch inhaling corrupt air, this is also “memorable” and “important”, but, objectively speaking, it is only mildly entertaining, a glitch in the system, a momentary suspension. And nothing is right here, or meant to be. We will all go on, and these little grains of sand around us will be withered away by the elements, becoming microscopic and lost in the endless, really, the infinite, particles that will continue to be created over and over again, like a song that never stops playing in my mind.