What of purpose?
With it, meaning,
Without it, non-existence.
What of purpose?
Both are the same,
Both are exactly the same.
This is key, this is key.
“I shall return!” he said, slamming the car door and heading for the library, a newly finished non-fiction clutched in hand. The blue Ford didn’t appreciate the rough treatment, especially without just cause, without a reason, hell, she hadn’t stalled for weeks. And so she began in an I’ll show him fashion to work a cold steel spring up through the soft foam of the beige vinyl driver’s seat. She then spat a chip of oxidized sky blue paint and rusty metal from the weathered hole in the left front quarter panel.
“Entropy’s a bitch, huh?” he said aloud, kicking at the chip as he walked on across the sidewalk and up the walkway through the well-trimmed hedge of green. You know nothing of thermodynamics you selfish prick, would a wash and a wax be to much to ask? thought the car.
A pair of crows took flight together from a nearby Poplar and a wisp of wind unsettled some dust from the tarmac of the parking lot. The pair headed south cruising just above the treetops toward the the heights of the steeple atop the white-as-snow Episcopal Church.
The light breeze set in motion from the slamming Ford’s door and the wisp from flapping crows wings mingled, whirled, wrestled and grew, tousling the freshly cropped coif of Ms.June Day on her way out of the Three Blades Salon a block to the south. “Fuck” she said and spun one-eighty on her Jimmy Choo heels, back in for a touch-up last look before the big meeting.
With a thud, the hardcover Chaos, Who’s Really In Control? hit the bottom of the library’s sheet metal return bin. Jesus, my spine! thought the book, I’m getting too old for this crap, just put me on a shelf and dammit, never crack me open again, I’m hereby retired!
Spongy and absorbent, soft acoustic foam wrapping the podium microphone cringes at the scent. Coffee over peppermint toothpaste mixed with eggs and pork, heavy with fear and trepidation. It seems even outspoken, self-assure, Marketing Executives get stressed when it comes to public speaking.
Long parched bacteria nestled in the mic rejoice at the halotic moisture. Spoken words testing the system, “check one-two, check one two, check”. Thin sheets of thin plastic membrane vibrate subtle fractions, a tiny magnet through a tiny coil, sending mere millivolts delayed imperceptibly, electrons resisting the flow through imperfect copper wires, to an amplifier’s transformer. Transforming the small voltage to something big, big enough to boom twelve-inch JBLs to life and reach the masses gathered in the giant hall.
Thirty-eight special was in reference to the mans belt size and not so much the side arm he chose, that was a .45 auto. Still, the maxed out thirty-eight was special since it was doing the job of a forty-five and surely would have to retire soon or be torn to shreds by an ever expanding waistline. A commemorative 25 years of service brass buckle and a thirty-eight inch length of top grain leather. If the leather gave up the fight today someone’s bound to lose an eye to flying brass, the meeting was packed.
This is some good stuff, whispered under my breath, but where am I going with it? Where am I going with it? Where…am…I…
Why do we have to go anywhere? I think that’s the problem. We think every story needs an ending, every story needs purpose…every story needs…a…what?
Yeah, it does need, it’s called a plot.
Dick.
What, a formula?
No no, not that, but who would buy a story that ends in a weird place, abrupt as a car wreck, a story that’s not a story?
Oh, so now it’s about the selling and not the writing? Why do people read man?
An escape?
Yes, an escape from that which they deep down already know but don’t want to acknowledge. Meaning is a farce. Purpose is a Rhinestone Cowboy. Existence…is…futile. Now why does that make any sense?
No, that’s you, not them.
You can shave your head and preach non-attachment but can you put a bullet in your head and preach anything?
Well I guess that depends how big a hole and how deep you go with it. You, my friend, have some issues.
Don’t be a prick.
Sorry. What about preaching? Preaching, by definition, means you know a truth.
Does it? Can’t you preach lies? Knowingly I mean.
Doesn’t anyone who preaches anything preach lies? They just don’t know it?
They just don’t know it…why?
And so it comes around full circle, because they don’t want to know. Knowing the truth equals annihilation.
Are you jealous?
Yes. I am…but…that’s just the half of it.
The paint chip hit the ground with a bounce not an inch from an ant out for a forage. She rears back then approaches cautiously, antennae scrutinizing, this flake of blue was as big as her head. This is it! She thought. The end is near, the sky has finally cracked! Clamping the piece tight between her strong mandibles, she heaves it up over her head and heads back to the mound following the chemical trail she’d left for herself. The queen must see this! The queen must see this!