Function
A short essay, inspired by the simple wonderings of a mind, way too tired to even…
function
/ˈfʌŋ(k)ʃ(ə)n/verb
gerund or present participle: functioning
work or operate in a proper or particular way.
fulfil the purpose or task of (a specified thing).
To function.
What on earth —
If the movement of slopes flow down the shores, if the world keeps on turning, on changing, on following its perpetual state of being, of happening, of keeping its self inertia: what it is to function?
To wake up at eight, never late, to clean the static of an antenna, to mourn the deaths in vain, as a horrifying broadcast begins to say? To pray, O heavens, to stand up, to work, to be — Human, full of habits. To live.
Is it to function?
A cascade of words, nevertheless, to be shown.
To fulfil a task, where? Upon a desk, on the borders of a bed? To live, to stay still, to weep? Have you ever wept, faced the ungentle perks of destiny? For the end was not near, not here, not there — and yet, as close as the tears of who had left. And left… Look to the left, for there, a subtle instance you have once kept. But to the right, you turn away to your own regret. Neglect. You would neglect. Your past, your cast — upon words unsaid.
Function.
Malfunction.
Within a mound of papers, for five was merely a glimpse of fate, as you stare: at a flat, obnoxious wall, waiting. Waiting for the clock to toll, once more, once again: for all your inner desires shout to go. To run, not stay within this dull existence
Tick.
Tock.
Fast pace, limitless façade of amazement, a charade.
To function is to…?
A simple matter of “I can’t”, find an end.