Monotony \mə-ˈnä-tə-nē, -ˈnät-nē\
: (noun) a lack of change that makes something boring : a tedious sameness
Seijuurou's life is, in a word, monotonous.
Each day passes by without much difficulty, each bleeding into the next, creating an eternity of black-and-white days that slip through his fingers like grains of sand. Time has ceased to matter, and so, he does not bother trying to keep track of it. What's the point of remembering the day's date or the current time? This man-made concept of time is nothing but a frame of reference with which to record our insignificant goings on that are less than specks on the cosmic scale of things. If mass extinctions aren't even a bump on the road of the history of the universe, what are our lives and deaths?
Nothing. Worthless. Pointless. We just continue to live because we'd rather be alive than dead; we soldier through the pain of existence for no other reason than that we have nothing better to do. Maybe we make a difference in the lives of those around us or maybe we get our names in a single section of a future history book, but, more often than not, our miniscule existence is quickly erased from the pages of the world within a generation or two and we cease to matter, assuming that we mattered at all in the first place.
Seijuurou is well aware of the total lack of importance about his corporality and has come to accept it over the course of months of sleepless nights, pondering what the inevitable end will feel like. He's always wondered about how it feels to die—his interest in the subject only grew after the death of his mother. Was her death painful? Did she go to some other plane, to some other level of consciousness? Or, was the end truly the end? He has found no conclusive answers—nothing but a few theories that need to be choked down with an infinite amount of faith in some other, greater being acting as a puppeteer for the whole human race.
The boy lets out a soft sigh as the philosophical ramblings and existential crises race through his mind once more; his mind is surprisingly desperate to distract him from his mathematics, but he allows the distraction. The sun outside his window is half-hidden by the horizon, leisurely sinking out of sight, painting the world in hues of pink and red and gold, disguising the grayness of the world for a moment—offering a brief reprieve to the tedium of the landscape dotted with identical building holding identical people. Seijuurou watches the sun disappear, leaning back in his desk chair in an attempt to soothe his back after sitting hunched over for so long. This sunset is identical to all the sunsets that have come before; there is nothing special or unique about this one. It forces yet another sigh from him.
Seijuurou sighs a lot these days.
He turns back to his work with a familiar bitterness in his heart, returning each time he considers the pointlessness of everything. Still, Seijuurou continues to live and exist and obey his father because he has nothing better to do.
What a useless world.