On a glorious afternoon of June when the sun shone in all its grandeur, Mr. Floyd was treading in short steps with his big brown boots, down the steep of Chabel contemplating his lack of passion for everything. He considered that all was over for him. The will to live, to be amused by the trivialities of human deeds, the splendor of nature which induced paroxysm of joys in ordinary of circumstances, the ingeniousness of human beings along with their foolishness which incited innocent laughter among others were all getting trivial to him. He felt like a man thrown into an abyss of hopelessness from where even light couldn’t escape. The world didn’t make any sense at all.
With every step he took he began to ponder at the senselessness of the world. Not his world. The human world. The whole of human existence was getting in his nerve as he was unable to answer the question of our purpose in such an uncanny universe. Such constant flux of hopelessness was evident in his countenance and the passers-by could easily misjudge him for a neurotic patient. Such disturbed was his appearance.
Floyd’s sense of senselessness increased along with the dusty and mundane road which stretched across the Bagmati River bridge and into a small park. He muttered involuntarily, “ I cannot be an accident”. He was wondering the origin of the universe and what ensued after the Big Bang while considering all those scientific hypothesis which explained our existence. He thought it to be pathetic. If such were the truths then he reflected contemptuously, “my life is nothing but a product of an accident! This cannot happen”.
Mr. Floyd subconsciously felt that there was something divine in the origin of the universe and the creation of human life. He did not believe in God and refuted the very idea of such a bizarre creature, yet, he doubted science. He didn’t suppose this to be contradictory ideas but an integration of his experience with surreal elements of the world. He was one of those people who would spit into the face of “God” if it appeared out of thin air and proved its existence.
Upon reaching the park he made himself comfortable in a green wooden chair where he was suddenly taken with one of those desolate lassitude’s which are overwhelming in their attack upon soul and the body. He began to delve into the same abyss of hopelessness but now he went deeper and darker while the strings of hairs from his arms became erect and he shivered in this radiant summer’s day. He was clenched by such paroxysms of sadness and senselessness that he felt his heart being squelched by some invisible hand on the inside.
His eyes began to blur and dimmed gradually while his breaths grew slower and slower. He was now certain that these were his last breaths and for the last time he thought.
He thought about Earnest Hemingway. He thought about Dostoevsky and Paolo Maldini. He thought about the red rose that had withered away in his study table and that he had forgotten to replace it. He wondered what his ugly and fat wife was doing at home. Probably cleansing the chinaware. He imagined the grandeur of nature which he had beheld. The rivers and streams, hills and fields, the snows and the rains, “oh! Sweet rain”, he thought. Now he could smell the doughnuts that were made at the nearby shop and he longed for it. Alas!
Then, a child suddenly appeared and began to play with her Pug. She ran, giggled, fell down and laughed again while the Pug followed her everywhere in the park. And for the last time Mr. Floyd took a long breath and whispered, “Hark! The meaning of life”.