The soft green grass is being crushed below my impossible weight without much resistance. The cloudy blue sky above nonchalantly looks down at us all; too far, too big, and too impossible for us to grasp. Clouds restlessly move and change, shaped by the whims of the blowing wind; a beauty of stable change.

I lay there in a park I often frequent with a group of loneliness repellents and time fillers, but alas they seem to have lost their usefulness; they fill time with nothing but uncomfortably warm air, like an empty can of deodorant, it's not a bad atmosphere by any measure, yet it's one I developed an aversion to, similar to an allergy: They repel no loneliness but invite more of it.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Sometimes my mind automatically wanders away from their nth casual and insignificant conversation, conversations I've witnessed far too much of that they lost any semblance of novelty and intrigue. I start to think of the past, not with nostalgia or lamentation, but as a curious and earnest historian trying to find the answer to the reoccurring mystery: how did I end up here?

I always manage to understand the series of events that led me here, but not the reasoning governing my actions and behavior. It's as if I can only see the wreckage of my train of thought, and it's bad, to say the least; I can only look at my past self as a moronic stranger I'm related to by fate. The events that led me here are random, whimsical even, and I'm sure things will not remain like this forever; change is the only stable part of life, and it's not beautiful.