Fictitious Babble

I found them grovelling, shovelling, up in the snow. It was a narrow road on a hill, and beyond the edge was oblivion. They said, "There ain't no point in grimacing, we do this everyday." There, on a cold morning, I found them whimpering.

Up until that point, I had been driving for 3 1/2 hours towards north. On the road, I saw lumberjacks cutting wood from certain trees out of many. I saw snowbound possums and rodents waiting to be killed by predators. I saw beyond what was present, not a blue sky and whiteness spread across.

I saw red, and black. I saw misanthropy, and I calculated. I had lust for it, I wanted it so bad. Differences of opinion, between my other ego, clashed just in front of them.

"Whadaya want?". I wanted to free them of their remorse, because I knew how bad it feels, to be stuck, like Sisyphus. He wasn't happy.

As they ran, I ran along, like the possum and the hyena I saw, screaming and howling. When the hyena caught up to the possum, there was never a better time. Only one could win.

Splatter, grind. Silence. There was no whimpering. Both the possums lay there wasted. Death never left.

I went upto my car, and I thought why I had done it. But there was only silence, even my other ego stopped talking.

Had I not find bliss? Was I condemned to drive, forever?