It started a few summers ago (affectionately referred to as "The Summer of My Discontent") when I was going for a walk around the block.
I saw a lady taking her poodle for a stroll and had one of those Bell Jar moments when the world is revealed as a sham and you are merely caught up in its game of
and going to bed
then doing that again
For endless days.
"What is the point of having a poodle?"
That was the hinge on which the door opened for
"What is the point of being alive?"
Reality sort of became transparent that June and I felt like I was floating most of the time.
All tied to a pole and up in the air. My head full of static.
I had not felt that way in a while, with the help of distractions and medications.
But this morning it was cloudy
and I saw a lady with a tiny poodle dog.
She was squatting and picking up its poop
and I thought,
"What is the fucking point?"