Marching
2004-04-28 - 11:42 p.m.

The clicking of the keys is a metronome, the inescapable beat of a song that I no longer wish to hear. I don’t know the words, but the tune sounds so familiar that I sing along anyway, making up words that make more sense than I’d like.

The crowd around me tries to join in, but they are handicapped by the absence of the rhythm they cannot hear. The melody plays on, slow and expressive, a mournful dirge for days gone by, and for dark days yet to come.

In the distance, I can see the leader of the band, his baton twirling wildly, his legs stepping high, theatrically and pompously. I cannot see his face, but I can hear his song, and it is enough.

Men are born, to laugh and cry,
And foolish is he, who asks why,
Appease yourself, do not be shy,
Eat, and drink, tomorrow, we die.


The words resonate in my mind, even as my spirit realizes that they are weightless. Still, I find myself marching, grinning wildly, singing along with my own words, and wishing all the while for the bandleader to stop the parade.

I realize for the first time that I hate the music, I hate the song, I hate the march, and I hate the company. As these realizations flood my mind, I take another step, and sing another verse, hoping it will be better than the last.

Hell is home, and home is Hell,
And for whom tolls the wailing bell?
Ask not, dear sir, what your fate may be,
The hellish hoards, they sing for thee.

And every word is true.