Surreality

A dark shadow crossed his mind, a cloud of turbulent ideas. They shifted with unease, disturbed by light and wind, brooding as they formed strange shapes, as if uncertain of what to do. A flash of lightning and they decided to precipitate. Cascading drops of happiness fell to the grassy plain, which began sprouting musings and emotions as the earth does flowers in spring.

But then it changed. The rain boiled and reddened, forming rivers of horrible, poisonous blood frothing with despair and pain.

Poetic way to look at it, really. The rush, the ecstasy, the freedom. And then the pain, the fear, the misery and self-disgust. His eyes opened, and after a while he began to see.

From his place amongst the garbage cans, the smell of which he was now immune to, he watched as people walked by. People; the grotesque, the masses, the world. The drab greys, the depressing colours, the silly, fruitless exploits of their lives. Walking ashes, soon to be dust.

(to be continued)