Hypochondriac Reflections outside a Library of our Imaginations Only

Some people call it an Indian summer; I say its global warming. I reflect upon the current lives while taking a walk outside a library of our imaginations only. Except this was a real library and I have witnesses to prove it.

Sitting outside on a couch of bricks, I spread my knees and lean back. My head is throbbing. Is it an aneurysm forming? It would not surprise me after a weekend of stressful arbitrary arguing where your work turns out to be the definition of failure and you see it in the dictionary under the word, failure; see disgrace, unsuccessful, and reasons for a mercy killing. I was unaware the dictionary had moved beyond simple phrases and turned itself into my own worst critic. The thesaurus did not help me; the definition in the dictionary was the last living dinosaur. Quickly I closed the dictionary set out front the library of my imagination. Therefore, the weekend was a failure despite all the reports of our success. What if I die? That would not be success for me, but it would be for the reaper, and old Grim always wins. Now the pain has moved all throughout my head, I can see psychic blindness overcoming my understanding. Am I about to die? Where is the white light I have heard so much about? No, no light for me except the streetlamp and the clouded moon tucked in for a night's rest, a night off. I need a night off; these nerves in my elbow hurt, every time I massage them some sort of pain shoots through my neck and I get a tingly feeling in my sinuses. God I need some Sudafed. If there is a God, and I know there is, maybe, if only he would make his presence known, then he could heal me. Deism never has appealed to me. However, if there is no god then there is nothing left after death. That would be a vacation, a break to remember. Now all I feel is my brain being sucked with a vacuum cleaner and some sort of probing done by aliens. I hope their surgical instruments are clean. Well that at least explains the voice in my head saying the aliens are arriving with the mother ship in 73 days, 22 hours, 15 minutes and 39.73 seconds. Now make that 38.48 seconds. If that is the case then global warming does not matter anyway, if life is futile and little green things with eyes, ears, and appendages that eat brains are coming, why worry about an aneurysm. My brain would have gone bad by then. How Ironic. I guess sometimes life has to be a Woody Allen movie.

I see the curvature of the library in front of me. Greek pillars rising toward the arches of the skies; I guess anything less would be Romanic or barbaric. I also see lovers parading themselves around me, one pair showing off chain smoking tricks of loops and hearts like in those Loony Tunes cartoons with that French skunk (what was his name, Pierre, Anton, or Marcel?) and another walking with their hands clasped together as if they were at a prayer service. I am sitting alone outside my place of solace; two is a crowd where I am always. No one visits me for long. It is why books are my lovers, and my friends, because they give me something to dote upon while the world gangs up on each other. Would that not make the library my brothel? I would just prefer to reference it as my soul. My imaginative soul because I cannot prove I have one. All that soul is, is just some air about me which some say is beautiful. What is beauty in the eyes of the blind if they cannot behold? I am blind for I have bouts of psychic blindness, seeing but not understanding. If that is the case then I am lost out here without any compass. I do not understand why the world throws emotion into everything trivial and all I can think of is the outbursts I had this past weekend. Constant lovers' quarrels; and I was the mediator, the referee. Yet by the end, I was a refugee, trying to escape from my political prison. Ouch, my aneurysm has returned; I think I am going to take some Advil and read another book.