he wondered, why do the same thing tomorrow as I've done for the last five years? all the books read, the time in school, the confusion of adulthood. nothing amounted to anything. maybe it was his recent affinity for Murakami?
it was as if, adding salt to his plate didn't change the taste in any reasonable way. dull. tasteless. limp and, and, what's another word for dull?
he watched the BBC nightly report on public television. a reporter introduced the special guest; a National Geographic photographer who specializes in war-torn countries. look at this man's life, he thought. pictures of dark refugees, deep in agony flashed on the screen. a small child sewing her ragged clothes. the man could barely keep his composure.
this, this is what I wanted my life to be, he shouted. someone who makes a goddamn difference he screamed. but, after the cathartic eruption, he lay silent. he thought about tomorrow. the credit card debt, the school debt, the telephone bill, the IRS, his recent trip to Colorado for a best friends wedding. his stupid, inconsiderate, but fairly large breasted girlfriend. goddamn, I'm a chauvinist he muttered to himself, sickened at the thought of his refusal to call it off, because sex was all that remained. and frankly, he didn't even enjoy it all that much anymore.
a moment later, a steady, but thin noise engulfed his left ear. it made it's way up into his mind like a thin, translucent sheet, drawn out, and slowly falling into place. the noise grew. drowning in the sea of noise. alone, in the sea of noise.