Wednesday, April 4, 2018


I am a mote. A speck. An organelle.

I aspire to be a statistic.

I am forgettable, immediately and evolutionarily.

This is my struggle. This is the struggle of sentience. This is the absurd.

And I have been acting quite absurd lately.

Screaming and crying and gurgling beyond breath for attention as a baby for its mother. But mother is the vast uncaring reaches of this universe in which I occupy less space than an electron does this paper. Less time than it would take an electron to pass through this same paper. I cannot fathom the great expanse this paper must cover in order to comparably shrink that electron to my level of insignificance, nor can I fathom how quickly that electron must travel to match the brevity of its interaction to my own.

Yet here I am, screaming.

I am surrounded by those who have not noticed me - or if they have, they'll soon forget me, as I them. The bartender in the bad hat who has already forgotten me on two occasions. The two blondes to my left whose sole interaction with me has been to move a purse to a socially acceptable position, inches from this paper. The staff of all different ethnicities and sizes and dispositions, from the Latina waitress in pastel pink to the edible hostess in black to the sharp-featured chef wearing a nearly destroyed hat with a barely visible Chilean flag on it. Plus the fifty others. Plus the fat guy in gray writing this.

All forgettable.

All forgotten.

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