Morning Delusions
There is no story to tell. It's seven in the morning. He must have learned to be sick of his mind. The neon beans or worms that came before their eyes have to do with dozens of books on their table. Everything has to do with everything, all things like child blocks assembled. He hopes that his mind has also learned to vomit out of his stomach. His perception of time has slipped, and there is noon on him. As she goes to turn off the alarm she thinks she's still sitting at the table hunched over, just thinking about turning off the alarm. Morning is as it should be. The chain of habits and routines that take over things frees him from indifference and his mind. We should still be prepared, behave as if you know how to live, get on the bus and miss the stop to get off.
The cabinet he opened by holding the lid seemed to creak, saying "we are tired of watching the same movie every day". He could apologize for being boring, from his closet, or from the faucet and toothbrush he would soon open.
He could surprise them that he could have a good night's sleep and wake up to the sound of a cheerful alarm. He could greet the day, look in contrast in the mirror and smile. He could drink teas with strange names and eat lots of healthy things with oats. He could do his sports and write what he would do during the day. He could have been an established toy, maybe even a very successful person like this, but he didn't want to be. Because all this didn't make sense enough.
The preparation was over. He had to pull the door quietly and walk out of the apartment.
It's warmer outside than you expected. The sun shines to shine again, no one cares about the world but humans. His mind is still blurry. His eyes are on his steps, which he loves to watch more than the movie he loves to watch. Its feet have been trusting the ground for years. He is not satisfied with this situation. He doesn't know how gravity pulls him every time, whether he will one day give up on it. He is of the opinion that gravity with his feet must sign a treaty until he himself dies. Didn't he shut the door on the way out? His distrust is the only thing he trusts.
The roads are changing, there are some feet walking with him around him. A feeling clicks on his blurry mind as he is being followed at that moment. When he turns around, they meet the black cat eye to eye. It's as if the cat is telling him, "I think most things are meaningless." The cat smiles. The cat still walks after him. The cat is waiting there while crossing the road.
As the cars pass by, the cat says one more thing: "It is bad luck for us to pass by a female in purple on Tuesday." He looks at the purple coat on him and he justifies what the cat says.
"What you said was more meaningful than things in the world. I think people who love purple always want to die or kill. Tuesday is bad like all other days."
Before hearing the answer the cat will give, the big bus that he will take is entering between them. He gets on the bus without even being able to say goodbye to the cat. It should not be visible to cats today.
The bus is full of people. His eyes are on the ground because he is afraid to look into the eyes and faces of deceased people. He thinks about the people around him through his shoes. The person to his right is a man, wearing cloth trousers and squeaky shoes that seem to have just been painted. The trouser line is very sharp. The perfume he squeezed burns his throat. When he was younger, he always thought that people who smoked a lot of perfume smell really bad. He sits down on the empty floor, leaning his head on the seat in front of him, talking to the sofa about the reality of the cat he just talked to. What the seat says is not satisfactory.
His mind was still murky, behind his landing stop.
Everything is very blurry.