Doomed to forget

His eyes were watering, not from sadness but from his allergy. He had been particularly numb in the last few years, he was allergic to a lot and at the same time nothing. Although the grief had returned a few weeks ago. Hopefully the two didn't mix, he'd die of thirst through his eyes.

Some things he didn't do on principle. The washing up, for example. Or what he was told. He had a mind of his own, but used it too seldom. Actually, he was intelligent and capable of many things, if only there was a deeper reason, he told himself as he stared at the ceiling and his intelligence and ability found no real expression, if they had ever been as real as he assumed it to be .

"Are you happy?"

"Wait what?" He asked the whisper in his own head. But there was no answer. He suppressed it remarkably quickly.

The waves that hit the water were calming and cleansing for the soul. At least that's what someone would say if he wasn't lying on the beach with a headache and general malaise. Did the dull hum in his head really drown out the sound of the sea? Perhaps. But that wasn't important either, he knew that it was good for him or would be good for him. He hadn't made up his mind yet. He loved the sea.

And he loved the more, which is why he was accompanied by a slight dissatisfaction wherever he was. A typical side effect of the modern world he thought, turned his head away from his smartphone and realized that it would be easier to concentrate on the moment and let the thought bubbles be.

Sometimes a feeling of insecurity overwhelmed him. It happened very suddenly, often an embarrassing situation or an uncertainty was enough. Did he do something wrong? No, he didn't, he knew that. Doing something wrong meant something serious. Wasn't it grotesque that people on the other end of the world perished of hunger and war and that he let himself be unsettled by a triviality?

Yes. Now he felt even stranger.

A cigarette seemed appropriate at the moment.

He loved Ramon. And he hated Ramon. Just like himself. This was arguably the most honest form of affection.

His interior was like that of a broken clockwork. Time was ticking, albeit offset, sometimes hours seemed like seconds and seconds like hours. A small mistake in the machinery, which caused the whole construction to trip and the gearbox to jam. Time itself is a construct. This occurred to him when he looked at the words "clockwork" and "construct" longer. At some point it was over without you noticing that it had even started.

A snap of your finger, a blink, a lifetime.

Why not take risks when you were doomed to forget anyway?