by Mike Mulhern

Created on: May 20, 2008

The headache was back this morning. It's happening every day now, to the point where I just expect it the moment my eyes open. It actually seems better if the alarm goes off since then I can at least blame the stabbing pain on the blaring of whatever ridiculous song is playing, or the inane blather of the DJs. If I wake up in the quiet of the morning the pain seems more invasive. Deeper.

Aspirin, Tylenol and all of that crap has long since stopped working. I can only lie there in bed with my eyes closed. Sometimes that helps. The swirling, cloudy blackness behind my eyes can be soothing. I see it at times too. The black swirls come together to form that shape - a huge, dark lake. I'm rushing over the surface of it like I'm on a motorboat, but there's no noise. It's all quiet. My mind almost detaches from my body at those times. And the pain subsides, if only for a minute.

Breakfast was a living hell again. Jane's mom was screaming out all of her usual complaints to no one in particular. Jesus, does she even realize how loud she is? Is that what age does to you, make you lose track of basic things like volume? The kids were babbling about whatever it is they tend to babble about nowadays. I barely remember the time I used to care.

And Jane has her list of issues, of course. Drones on and on about the same things every day. How her life is unsatisfying. How we never do anything anymore, have any fun, go anyplace. How it's not the same as it used to be. I'll agree with that. But how do you live life when you're already dead?

I don't talk at breakfast anymore. Maybe I'll mumble the occasional "Yes dear" or "We'll see dear" but that's all I can muster. Mostly I sit there and stare out the window as the tumult continues around me. Noise is everywhere. The birds squawking outside, the cereal crackling in my bowl. When it all becomes too much I close my eyes. The dark swirls come together and I'm rushing over the lake again, and I feel a little better.

I drove to work under overcast skies. The smoke from the factory's chimneys rose up into the sky as it does morning, noon and night. It blends right into the gray clouds until you can't tell where the smoke ends and the clouds begin. The filth permeates everything. It rises up and takes over. Why does that thought only comfort me?

The protesters were outside the building today, pretending to be indignant about the usual things. That one man with the little goatee and the air of righteous superiority tried to get right in my

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