Glancing down at his pocket watch, he notices the time on the LCD screen says 21:34. It would be foolish to call the pocket watch a cellphone since it never rings. Set to loud, vibrate, or silent the end result is the sameâ€¦ SILENCE. Not the deafening silence talked about earlier, just nothingness neither calm nor disturbing. The consistency is calming though.
There is a loud snap as the lid of the pocket watch opens, speaks its purpose and then slams closed. There is satisfaction in that sound, knowing that one small goal is over. At least the watch generates sound then, proving through clapping thunder that it exists. This goal is a rather trivial and pointless goal, but an accomplished goal nonetheless.
The pocket watch has no purpose, thought, or feelings. Its ability to prove it exists is irrelevant. If the walking dead have no purpose, thought, or feelings, why do they need to prove that they exist? The walking dead do have feelings, even if those feelings make them resemble a doormat more than a mammal. Those feelings make them thunderous to prove that they exist. They need to scream to feel alive. That would explain why the walking dead are often so loud, boorish, and arrogant. That would explain the thought process of a weekend warrior. They find me disturbingly quiet and reserved. How little they know about how disturbed I actually am.
What about the goal from earlier? That goal is to know for sure that there is so much night left and tomorrow is so far away. If I had a checklist of all the things I have accomplished, yet never needed to do, it would stretch for miles. I place a chalk mark on the ground signifying the first of five pointless accomplishments tonight. When I am complete, I will mentally connect the dots and draw a circle around them before lighting a piece of blank paper in the center. Keep in mind that tonight will span over a month at the rate these minutes tick by.
Does it matter the time, since there is nowhere to be except right here and right now? Why must we always preoccupy ourselves with the future at the expense of the present? If only you are able to accomplish this and that, then tomorrow will be better. My hand still hurts from the last time I pondered on tomorrow. Yesterday I slept on an air mattress, while today I sleep on a bamboo mat.
Tomorrow, I will remove the Katana from the wall, and do so many things that I will never accomplish in the near future. Perhaps I left the house to find a better place to sleep. Was that the goal? I thought the goal was to eat Pizza? There I go again, confusing causality with effect. The goal is to turn the walking dead. A cause of that effect is eating Pizza.
When you have an idea, if you procrastinate, that idea is dead. Habitual routine takes over and the feeling of content will keep you from your aim or purpose. At least with a pirate flag held high above my bamboo mat, the experience still resembles that of a raft. The gentle hum of an electronic fan resembles the roar of the ocean. The goal is to turn the walking dead. A cause of that effect is restful slumber giving me excess energy.
Occasionally, a brief poorly structured scribbling of text flashes across the LCD screen. Even then, it is usually from someone less than 100 feet away that does not want to scream across a crowded room. People find me disturbingly quiet, and they themselves speak to each other in scribbled text in a crowded room? Perhaps, I am not as disturbed as I thought.
How long ago did I start walking to find his crossroad of regret and despair? The streets are already starting to fill up with weekend warriors attempting to hit up â€œhappyâ€ hour specials before 22:00, and perhaps sneak in past a cover charge or two. Their badges of honor become wristbands much like a decorated solider flashes their ribbons or medals on the home front.
Walking in the shadows almost invisible to the naked eye, I travel undecorated and at will. I do not concern myself with badges of honor or trophies. One pointless accomplishment completed, and four more to go. With a handshake, sardonic smirk, and a sarcastic remark, I enter the den where regret meets despair.