E:
It’s a fundamental truth. The wandering mind gathers no real
thought. Through idyllic fog that ran amuck in his brain, he searched for proof
of banal existentialism.
None.
Tedium wrung its way through each fiber of his muscle. Teenage
is such a rickety old bridge. There seems to be no end on either side, when did
he get onto this conduit? From the ceiling the fan hung, swirling in a circle,
seemingly slowing down with each revolution, especially through the haze of his eyelashes. He’ll
wait for serendipitous ideas to set his philosophy. It was too dreary to search.
Mind still wandered through esoteric zones.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.
Sylvia Plath screamed at him through the distance from his
English class. Eidetic memory was an energy draining curse. How immensely
wearisome.
As though through dense molasses he heard her voice.
“Dinner’s gone all ice cold! What in the world are you doing
in there?”
E is for Ennui

5 thoughts on “”

  3. “He’ll wait for serendipitous ideas to set his philosophy.” Uncanny. It's almost as though you've described how I was 20 years ago…

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