Cacophony

Once there was a king of nothing. He had a world lacking any possessions at all, an empty
space between two houses, and the sound of spare change being flung out onto the highway.
He threw parties with the rats in the walls and danced all night in the abandoned houses of
abandoned ghosts.
He fell down on cold floorboards to fill the holes in my shoes with songs to sing each other as
the sun rose. I could fill a boat with who he used to be and set sail on a sea of soft misery; to
float content into a place we are solemnly yet to find.
My ashtray floats away from me, further out into other bathtubs full of other thoughts for
other days.
Drunk, I fall, down through the floor of reality. I spin, free fall, cartwheeling from this place
of safety on my midnight balcony. I bend my head down to my chest, making taut my
muscles and limbs. Seeming to shift size rapidly from minute nothings to gargant
everythings. I contort in whiplash from sense of self to sense of self, never settling long
enough to hold on to anything. It is still early.
To tear apart the thoughts that make me me if then I could take with it that single self-
identifying letter of tepid, miasmic, insanity. Destruction is more creative than anything else
tonight. It all breaks down at the context of my own sub-humanity.
And left with only that the walls reassert what they call my reality. My surroundings obscure
themselves and draw distant from this internal, continual, cacophony.
We are nothing.
We are dust on the surface of rock.
Yet we proclaim so much.
Shouting that we are.
Shouting that we are worth.
What meaning this may have means very little when meaning seems to come from whoever
would speak it. It is at the furthest from human that we feel closest to god.
The world is a mindless hunk incapable of thought therefore incapable of having thoughts.
This means that all the beauty we have found cannot exist. Yet somehow, we thought it
beautiful anyway. The truth lies in our ability to find such truths in anything, even the world
we have proven to be yet incapable. It is not beautiful, it simply cannot be, yet we call it so
anyway.
I run from who I was and collide with who I am,
clattering to the floor a puddle of what may be.