Butter Gone Rancid

Every time one of them talks, I get the creeping sensation that I am that much closer to an ear infection.

The weather is the typical catalyst for unnecessary babble, but it could also be other perceptibly negligible details. Household pets, special cookies being made, the state of the world. 

When did the world become so numb, I wondered to myself. It surely is not the same world it was when I was young. It has morphed into something unrecognizable in nature, perhaps the same veneer on the surface, but underneath a completely different character and substance. Brain develops and degenerates, swimming thing that shifts and changes over time, odd thing to happen. Same set of eyes we each have, but what we see is dependent on the central control center. So is it the world that has changed, or is the real change from deep within ourselves? Or is it a blend of both? Even as I ask these questions I already know the answers, and yet the state of affairs remain ever-presently confusing.

The only constant in life and mind is a state of flux.

Can’t make any cakes or desserts tonight because the butter has gone rancid. It’s not as if it’s a few days or weeks old – it has to have been years now. Can’t believe I can’t smell it from where I’m standing at the fridge door. Trying to get that boisterous nowhere chatter out of my head as well. And the buzzing from the ships outside, not threatening to blow apart any buildings immediately, but reminding everyone of their true power with the constant buzzing. “We get it already,” said one of the ladies on her way out to a cabinet meeting.

No more butter in the stores for a few weeks. 

And the queues are always so long on arrival days, it hardly seems worth it anymore to wake up early and secure a spot in line. How badly do I want that stick of fresh butter? And will the other items be guaranteed? How badly do I want tomatoes this time of year? Surely I could do just fine without tomatoes.

Surprised we’re still allowed pets around this time. Can’t let things get too grim. But I suppose pets give comfort more than anything. Can’t even entertain the possibilities of anything else. Poor Sparky – we won’t let anything happen to you. 

Despite the chance of a small taste of what the butter once was, I throw it in the bin. Some people might chance it, but not I. I’ve never been one to get through sickness and throwing up well. I know it’s rare for a person to enjoy sickness, but I’ve always especially detested it.

Not feeling much for the processed stuff, either. A pouch, or risk the street vendors? 

A pouch, I think. 

I just wish she had said “good evening” to me on her way out of the building, knowing that I was the last one in the office. That’s the least anyone can do for each other in days like these.