Sunlight shining through green curtains falls softly upon a glistening amber exoskeleton. A miniscule crumb, monumental for its vehicle, breaks apart slightly as its transportation takes place. It takes no thinking, no pondering, no examination of intent. All it takes is energy expenditure.
A catalogue of cool colors, falling inbetween a brooding blue and an eccentric light green. Colors move fluidly, slightly, entrancingly slow for they taken it upon themselves to relieve the ground of its tiredness. No thoughts, no observations, just action.
Then why, must I beseech, why must I suffer with such interrogation of the gift that was bestowed upon me at conception against my will? Why should I have to suffer with the knowledge that the universe could be infinite, that rain isn't a tourist when meeting the dirt, that thinking about this will one day be for naught? Who decided that I shall spend my only waking hours contemplating the usefulness of my actions and the casualties of my resources? Can't I go about my life, like an ant or a wave, just for the pure habitualness of it? Why is the word "why" such an acquaintance with my vernacular? Better yet, why is any question term a part of my vocabulary? Am I damned to question everything against my will? Am I condemned to a close study of the excerpt that is my life so much so that the quality of it will be impaired? I will always be this empty, won't I? Every moment I pass without thinking of my consciousness is a distraction I've decided, and who decided I can't live in a distraction? Nothing will matter when my shift is over, so why do I have to find meaning in it now? Leave me be, o cursèd tormenter of my own volition, and leave me go rest, won't you? I had enough, please understand.
