Is this one of those postmodern things?

It's a day in the summer season. Sun soothing earth; light: bright. A gentle breeze caressing bodies clothed in as little as can be borne.


Sitting in my room looking through a window, dirty and worn. Looking out at as people trudge past with their cares encased in their heads, hidden away from all but themselves. "It's a day for mourning." "Where am I going?" "What am I doing here?"

I watch the cars streak by. A boom box here, a hoary shout there. "I am the Walrus?" "I can't take any more!" "Make it stop, please?"

Silent words criss-cross through my head. It strikes me as odd that I wish I were my conception of them: carefree, golden and jovial. "You can be whatever you want to be, sonny." "Opportunity knocks. Will you open your heart?" "Where's your head at?"

Silently, I gaze at them. I look up: no one is watching me. I look back down at them trudging past, paying no mind to eyes of a stranger above, looking through a window, battered and forlorn. "Morning has broken - it's the day's morning." "Where would I like to go?" "Or would I prefer to stay here?"

Through it all, the one pervasive thought in my mind is: I'm not happy. I guess that untouchable, everlasting core of joy I had buried in me has run out. That's a shame. That's troubling. Is there anything left to say? "Hello, goodbye?" "That's the standard!" "I will try to fix your achy mind."

When it's all said and done, it may just be that the coming of the Sun has brought to mind promises of romance, laughter, and dancing the nights away. I sense I'm missing my moments in the sun - days like these don't last forever. The people walking past, out of reach, just within sight, they are so far away. "You just need to get laid, by a hot lady, mind, my laddie." "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. Will you hear my voice and sup with me?" "Do you remember?"