Cerulean

The sky was such a deep blue that it made outer space seem imaginary. You could look into it, through it, scan every inch of its canvas and let your eyes devour the blue volume in its entirety, yet its beauty would still persist. It’s far too easy to grow bored — frustrated, even — with an overcast day, but a cloudless sky would forever be golden. That’s how Romero saw it at least.

Void the sky and all that exists in life is gray and rock. Romero worked 9am to 5pm each weekday at an office he despised to pay for a life he dreaded to wake up to each morning. And the weekend wasn’t any better. After chores, sleep, meals, bathroom time, and other necessities, Romero always found himself with only a handful of hours available to actually unwind. With such a limited amount of time set aside for relaxation, Romero frequently ended up forcing himself to partake in various activities he felt like he should do and enjoy, even if he didn’t truly feel up for it. He’d catch himself watching movies, playing video games, going out on the town, starting new hobbies, and engaging in all sorts of normally-enjoyable pastimes, but by the time he came to realize that what he really needed was plain, simple rest — to do nothing at all — it was already Monday. The only time he let himself indulge in pure rest was when he was out of work sick, and even then the guilt of not being productive prevented him from reaping its benefits.

In short, there was no rest or relaxation for Romero. Only work.

“But the sky!” he would think, “The great, blue sky is there and that’s all I need.”

Not even 30 years old and his life was set in stone. No family, no goals or works in progress, not even a dream. When it wasn’t the sky Romero’s head was in, it was the past, because a man who lives in the past doesn’t have to live in the present, yet a man missing in the present has no ground to lay the foundation of his future. A life without a vision of the future — no matter how out of reach it may be — is one without passion. Passion is life’s nutrient and Romero was starving.

He wasn’t alone, though. Almost every soul he passed, noticed, and interacted with throughout each day drug their feet along the same gray brick road. They were young, middle aged, old, very old, men and women, every race, religion, and culture, but they all slid down the hill just the same. And where to? Well, to the reward, of course! And what’s the reward?

But alas, these damned souls are doing the right thing, the only thing. When you use a lead pipe as a spyglass, you can see to the end of the road clear as day, although nothing exists outside of its field of view. You use it to survey the well-traveled road ahead, to see all of the obstacles, dips, and turns that lie in its path to ensure your journey goes as smooth as butter — no surprises. You see your next step and way out in the distance you can just about make out your last. “This is life,” you must tell yourself, “this is life and life is good.”

Romero was at a fancy dinner with a few of his work friends. He hated them all and they hated him back, but the forced smiles and brain-frying small talk was strong enough to stupefy an onlooker into thinking this rabble of work friends may actually get along well enough to be, say, acquaintances. Romero sat on one end of the round table, Fred sat to his left, and to Fred’s left sat Marco and his wife Angela. To the left of her was the secretary, Janice, and her boyfriend Chris, or Carl, or something. Don’t bother memorizing their names, they’re all equally worthless. Three men, two women, and Romero.

“I’m glad you could all make it.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Of course, thanks for setting this up, it should be fun.”

“Yeah, we’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Us too.”

“How was the traffic from your way?”

“Not bad, not bad, a little busy but not too bad. How about you?”

Then, eventually, the table splits off into sub-conversations.

“So how long have you been together?”

“Yeah, it’s been keeping me busy. You know how it goes with the kids.”

“About a year and…”

“6 months? 7 months? A year and a half, I think.”

“Oh for sure. Say, how are the kids? Are you still using the same babysitter?”

“Yeah, about a year and a half.”

And so on, and so on…. After the standard scripts are exhausted and their spirits lubricated with “professional beverages” (terminology depends on the context), then the broken-off conversations flow back into the same river bed to move in unison, headed for the star of the show: gossip!

Sweet, juicy, overwhelmingly boring gossip; it’s the language of the dull and lifeless. When your own life loses its pizzazz, there’ll always be the lives of others to look forward to. Gossip, you should know, is a delicate and fragile beast that must be respected to harvest its hide. It’s like skating down a dagger’s edge. It’s thrilling, but you mustn’t slip — and it’s a very easy thing to lose your balance on. It’s an evil, wicked thing, but doesn’t the blade feel good as it slices your skin? Bloodletting. Release the demons!

“He totaled his car.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. At least he wasn’t hurt.”

“For sure.”

“It’s not a bad car to lose, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you seen it? It was like something you’d give a teenager for their first ride.”

“Yeah…”

“What do you think he’ll get next?”

“Probably a bus pass, I doubt he can afford too much!”

“Hahaha.”

“Hahaha.”

…

“Did you see Stacy came to work with Bryan the other day?”

“Oh really?”

“Wait, like they showed up in the same car?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh!”

“When was it?”

“Friday, I think.”

“Hmm.”

“Didn’t she show up in the boss’ car last week?”

“Yeah, and with a new pair of earrings, too.”

Like a pool of hungry piranhas, like a cave of snickering witches.

When Romero wasn’t out with “friends”, he ate alone at his residence. The majority of the time, his solo dinners were made up of whatever was available. Some nights, though, when he had the energy for it, he’d go all out and make himself some sort of semi-challenging entrée. “I’ll make some salmon tonight,” he would tell himself as the butterflies of excitement tickled his skin — the same way it does for a child going down a long slide at the playground. “And I’ll marinade it, and make some greens, and….” Nothing tells you to tell yourself you’re happy like a loaf of homemade bread. “Would a depressed person be able to accomplish such a feat?!”

Then, when work, sleep, eating, and forced rest weren’t in action, Romero was in the lazy river of the commute. To work, to home, to the store, and so on…. Romero’s car was his second home — the bones of his butt melded into the driver seat in a way no other cushion could allow. To take his mind off of the intrusive thought of turning the wheel slightly to the left, or pushing his foot on the pedal, or not pushing his foot on the other pedal, he listened to music. Music is a beautiful thing. All of the many songs he listened to, once filled with meaning, happiness, release, and understanding, were now just noise. He left the music in his hear so long that, like a sweet cake overdue in the oven, it burnt. But that’s no bother. As long as it breaks the silence, Romero wouldn’t have to face his thoughts. As he drove, his eyes traced the skyline. Its blueness never felt so good.

One day, maybe, he’ll break free from this, he figured. One day. Maybe…. Probably.

Woops! He’s 60 years old now and he just retired. Well, would you look at that. Romero was a good boy though and he worked hard all of those decades, so he managed to save up enough money to retire comfortably. He did end up marrying a woman, whom he loved for a little bit, and they had two children together. The children, of course, no longer live with them, now that it would be handy to have extra hands on board, but they’re so young and fresh, out in the world of the blue sky, living their lives. Maybe, if they find the time, they’ll visit someday…. Maybe they’ll call…. Maybe they’ll text….

As for now, it’s Romero and his wife, whom he loved for a little bit once upon a time. She wasn’t his first choice and he wasn’t hers, but there comes a time in the scope of your lead pipe where you just have to suck it up, because you can’t complete the checklist otherwise.

So!

Retirement…. What are your plans, Romero? Hmmm???

Woops! He’s 80 and dying. Maybe the kids will visit now. They have kids of their own now, too, you know. Maybe they’ll get to see their grandparents one day, who knows! They could text at the very least.

Romero molded deep into his death bed with his head heavy against his death pillow. 80 years. 80 long years. He was born around 80 years prior and has lived each waking second of it in complete control and sentience. In the span of history, 80 years means horses to jets, muskets to machine guns, and the Fireside Chats to OnlyFans. 80 years is a long time and I’m sure Romero has plenty of good moments to look back on. So, Romero, how did those 80 years treat you? …

We’ll let him think on it — his mind gets so tired nowadays. For being so productive, there has to be something to show for it, right? Something greater than a loaf of bread, perhaps….

He turned his head flat to look out the window. The room was gray, Romero was gray, his memory was gray…. But the sky! The sky was the prettiest, deepest blue you could ever imagine.