Some days are like that: vacuous. Nothing stirs in the consciousness. Even the annual budget fails to rouse the spirit. Nothing matters really. “Earth to earth and dust to dust,” the cleric at the funeral service makes a ghostly apparition in the consciousness filling its foreground with what William James described as “a sense of surrender to the empty passing of time.”
Shadows walk about in the haze of moonlight that has turned marmoreal for no reason. Reason becomes a spectre that has put on dark goggles and a mocking smirk and gallops through the dying embers in your consciousness. Clop-clop-clippety-clop.
Emptiness is unbearable. Even if it is the DNA of life.
Fill it. With whatever you like. Words, for example. As I’m doing.