I walked today - a hop, skip, and a jump from my place where the floor rots in and the ceilings are hung with fuzzy mold. Down shining sidewalks I paced, my head hung low, to watch the seeds of shattered dreams sprout, blood slowly gathering at their knees in communions of first sin. I saw a dead dog besides my way. It's such a sad world. Every day it gets sadder.
I walked past a sad church group mourning a member of their congregation, and just beyond their dark throng a child cried over a toy lost in the storm drain. The shining, cruel swords of a blind, wrathful God shot down through the wounds in a pathetic, dead gray body of cloud. They burned the unknowing faces of the populace flashing between meaningless automatic expressions, their rigid bodies gliding along on a simple track whose uniform destination is misery.
The sadness of this saddest of worlds is reflected in its sick tungsten waters and the oil cracking to pieces under the scuttering wheels of scurrying cars. In shards I see the pedestaled peepers of priapist politicians street-preaching from private pulpits broadcast direct to your pocket-sized skull, its eyeballs eroding at their nervous roots. Within your blind, wrathful gaze two men - no - three men, maybe more march alone from their former homes, burrowing deep within the itching epidermis of the saddest world, leaving waste and sucking nutrients invisible to the naked eye. A tick crawls in the weeds and dies.
Underneath the cutting path of another blade of sun, a tumor festers on empty Earth. A curse of the saddest world.
"All he sees; disease."
This dis-ease I see on my morning walk in such a sad, sad world congeals in my veins and all I long for is to die and to no longer be a singular part of this dying, failing world. But for so long I have been too weak even to die. I pass a couple of young lovers parting from one another and ending. She stands crying and stupid, absorbing her idiot scorn into a greater scorn-husk of experience.
I see the bitter faces of old monsters perpetuating their own agony across the sad world, aspiring only to torment themselves and others. It is a boring, pathetic charade which takes up more of this sad world's space and time already crowded with cancerous cysts. An old widow crashes through the walls of this tumourous space and time, alienated from the malignant reality of the rest of the saddest world. Her memories of so many wasted years of shit stab into her cracked, dry synapses and recolour her view in the drab shrounds of the past. She seeks comfort from the sad, sad world in an even sadder one, moving in hilarious circles back to the womb of her uncreation from the saddest world.
I overhear a conversation between misery merchants, convincing themselves that their worthless lives are illusion.
"The real me will live on after I have died."
I see the agony they have sold persevere long after their minds and bodies have died. The suffering of the living lives on to satisfy the hunger of the dead. And the spite of the hateful dead, embodied in their deeds, upheld by the anhedonic laws of the nation of sadness lives on and terrorizes the miserable living.
Afterlife in the saddest world is real, perhaps, but only witnessed by the living and never by the blind, wrathful dead.