Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2204966
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Philosophy · #2204966
A man contemplates his place in the universe over breakfast (British spelling)
Cranial Sloth, a Penguin and a Cow

My brain feels fat; it tends to liquefy when heated, solidify when bored. Congealed, it saturates my mind and clogs my neurons with sticky thoughts. Thoughts that are often disjointed, incomplete; all the answers are there, I just can't seem to connect them with any haste. They remain estranged and elusive.

No, No! I'm no Einstein if that's what you're thinking, not smart enough to produce E=mc2. But then, even after Al discovered the true nature of the universe, he still didn't see the gravity of the situation.

I am not old, but I feel it some days. My iron bones rust in the shower and stain the bath towels orange. I should buy orange towels and save money on bleach.

Today, on the way to the breakfast table, I stubbed my big toe on the corner of the nightstand, no doubt the result of some fucking butterfly in China.

I have only one chair in the house. I use it for all my meals and all my extraneous sitting requirements. Today I sit and contemplate the bounty of Nature and the Kellogg's Corporation, strewn before me on the dining table. I live without fear that my desired seating etiquette might annoy CEO's or God. One man, one chair, I am without confusion, I am without bias, I sit as one with the universe, but I'm out of milk.

Elemental crumbs of gold forged in the heart of a collapsing sun litter the bottom of a cereal bar wrapper. I tip it to my mouth and tap the package to ensure I get all my minerals.

My Financial Post smells funny this morning, and page three always displays a watch I can't afford.

So I'm in desperate need of a distraction, but I can't surf porn because my computer's drunk; too many White Russians last night. It's slow and contemptuous and smells like plastic oppression. I choose not to share my passion until she smartens up and becomes more humane. Till then, I'll confine her to menial tasks, monitoring my banking activities and posting my Tweets.

I am alone with my thoughts, jumbled and misfiled. I can't move, much less get up because the weight of the ether is unbearable today. There's a smartphone in my pocket, but it's really not that smart; it seems unaware I want to be left alone. I must consider subscribing to an antisocial network with minimal coverage and pathetic bandwidth. Please dislike and unfriend me; this social shit is disingenuous and degrading.

Perhaps if I segregate my black thoughts from the white, the deep from the shallow, the picture will become clear. I could file them in categories then piece them together in some sort of coherent and grand unification theory; you know, the meaning of life and shit like that.
Until then, maybe I can store them in those plastic boxes from Staples. Except, wait, I probably have hoarder tendencies. If so, I know what happens next - I'll die in an avalanche of unbalanced thoughts. Found in my kitchen, still in my chair, Eureka on my lips, a plastic toy penguin in my fist.

But not today. Today my box of Frosted Flakes had a little toy cow at the bottom. It's made in China. I stare at it, pondering what they put in the Indian version of Frosted Flakes? I'm sure it's not a cow. I once found a crucifix in my Lucky Charms.

Molasses is a word you don't hear very often these days. The substance is a dark sticky elixir found in many products, but somehow it's managed to permeate my synapses this morning, (the product not the word), and derailed my routine train. It took me two hours to retrieve a simple concept from the cranial abyss.

Sometimes I try too hard, and the ideas sting my eyes and make my nose run.

Long ago, before I could think properly, I wanted to be smarter, so I attended all the essential courses necessary for humans to achieve self-awareness. Seven semesters seemed sufficient to ensure I was smarter than most people I detest, which is, in fact, the majority of people.

I studied biology, so I can disclose the godless facts to the pious while being damn sure there is, in fact, no god.
I studied physics, but not English, so I completely understand the intricacies of the universe, but can't explain fuck all. I also took geology, mostly because of the hot Asian girls who giggled every time the professor said Dry Hole, Thrust Fault and Spreading Ridge. And of course, Math, and Geometry - see Geology sans rocks, but add Fuzzy Set and Cox Ring.

So, I'm very smart - smart enough to get a job, nay a career, except that I'd be so sad, so depressed. I only want to think for me and me alone. Selfish thoughts, you might say, but free of corporate influence and compensation-based bias. I can't be a professional. I can't prostitute my mind. I need freedom and poverty to produce clean energy, the perfect equations, and some shit about existentialism.

Oh no, I'm not a martyr; I just refuse to create thoughts for the thoughtless. And NO, I am not a burden on the State, far from it, for I produce priceless thoughts at minimal cost. I think. I'm not sure what the going rate is for ideas these days.

Today my plans are clear and manageable. For food, I'll have a Kit Kat and Whiskey for lunch, then a whiskey for dinner, along with those little cocktail wieners that come in a can. I plan to reproduce a favourite quantum equation proving the Higgs Boson particle (which acts more like a wave) saturates every corner of the universe like molasses, slowing down energy, dragging it down until it solidifies into mass, then suns and moons and galaxies. Then I want pizza.

Do you see why I must always keep moving? I can't afford breaks or a slow-down in thought production, and I can't afford to let time catch up. The Earth spins fast when the mind runs slow.

But it's difficult at times, so hard to think clearly, perhaps because the elusive Higgs particle also washes through my mind, engulfing my thought energy, dragging it down, decelerating it, thickening the viscosity, metabolizing it into sticky goo.

My brain feels thick today - thick like molasses.

© Copyright 2019 James F Martin (mjfeatherston at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2204966