Sunday, June 12, 2005

The Confines of the Mundane

The sky, the celestial ceiling, so deceivingly impenetrable, is dead. Dead, for how else can Everyman describe the blinding, pseudopungent colour of a dead fish's belly (and thus the words In the Belly of the Carp ring), slathered like melted mayonnaise on heaven? Complete with the grey mouldy growths of insubstantial clouds, wandering their aimless, itinerant way through the realities of ciel.

Still the ravaging deadness covers the habitations of Man! Not merely the sky, but the air, balmy, stifling, initiating claustrophobic bouts in the appropriately attuned. Not even the wonders of modern technology (what, indeed? You wonder. An inappropriate and cliched term, oft-used to the point of weary irritation.) can eliminate the troubles that the overcast hue of the sky bring upon my thoughts.

{insert appropriate onomatopoeia here.} It's the heat, the stifling balminess that is normally found in the Doldrums, near the Sargasso sea. Inhale the air, taste the tangy, stale flavour of it, roll it around the mouth like a connoisseur of wine, an enologist, not without aristocratic distinction, practicing with self-assured poise the cultured swirling of the golden liquids in the crystalline glass.

Combined with the mundane shrike of Unfinished Business (aka homework, if you must know) the stifling heat in a stifling sky gets to even the most stalwart of those who live within.

And I am not even in the upper echelon.

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