Frank's Bad Day - Part II

Oblivion is not easily described. Asking someone to describe oblivion
as anything beyond a great void of nothingness seems like a creative
writing assignment given by a sadistic, overly tenured English
professor to wide-eyed freshman. "In 10,000 words or more, thoroughly explore the concept of oblivion, using at least 4 classic sources and 3 contemporary sources, comparing various religious, nihilist and existentialist philosophies. This assignment is due by next Wednesday. It is worth 30% of the grade for this course."

Frank was in oblivion. Besides the utter lack of stimuli, there was no ability to ponder his condition, only a numb sensation that he still existed and nothing more. He couldn`t ponder the passage of time, neither any dimensions of the space that he existed in. It was like he was a baby again and the entire universe was playing a really long game of Peek-a-Boo. Whatever amount of time passed, Frank finally felt a new sensation. He was cold. Not the crisp cold of winter that
energizes you to move, but the kind of cold you feel when someone takes your blanket when you were sleeping comfortably and you begin to wake up earlier than you would like. You lie there hoping you don't have to get up, but not really resting either. You are in a state that does not have the benefits of wakefulness or of sleeping, but simply don't care enough to change. This describes not only Frank's condition, but much of our own lives; between the sweet sleep of death and the wakefulness of a life well lived, we sleepily shiver in mediocrity, not caring, but not satisfied either.

Finally, with nothing else better to do, he awoke. Opening his eyes, Frank stared into a slate gray sky. It seemed like dusk, but without a colorful sunset, just a vague, almost unhappy light reflecting from an indistinct horizon. It was cold, as if it was the end of fall just before winter began in earnest.

Struggling to his feet, Frank tried to determine where he was. He was in the middle of a street, but it was silent, deserted and clean. It led so far into the distance that it looked like an exercise in perspective in an art class. The street was faced by non-descript storefronts painted in the most boring hues of grey, olive and brown. Even those stores with display windows showcased drab wares that only seemed to be available in the same insipid monochromatic hues as the
rest of this world. There were no street lights, no cars, just the odd bus stop with benches and trash cans in the same monotonous palette. The only thing that was close to being out of the ordinary was the large antique brass clocks mounted on dark metal stands on every third street corner. Wherever he was, it was nothing like Chicago, with its cluttered streets, noisy traffic and garish storefronts. It was an altogether depressing landscape that could have sucked the perkiness out of the leader of a high school cheerleader's booster club.