Bowl Of Cereal

He lay on his bed wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling with stolid emptiness. His mind was blank and so were the white ceilings. He looked around to find some variety, something different. Alas! He didn't find any. Everything was white around. Yes, he was in an asylum.
He felt stranded and strangled. He needed to get out, to breathe and let his mind breathe. He needed oxygen to feed his nostrils and feed his brain, which was going numb. Not that he was able to think much with his bruised mind, but at least he could think of good food. Oh! How he would savour the hallucinated delicacies; those despicable phantasmagorical misleading imageries, absolutely unsynchronized with even a far-fetched fairy-tale reality, wrapped up in bohemian flavours of sugary chilies and honey like venom. Saliva drooped from his seemingly serpentine tongue. He derived unethically righteous, blissfully transgressing pleasure out of it. Well, food, that was the only thing he could think of, sitting in that closed, infinitely white place, which seemed to have only one dimension. Nothing but the act of feeling the chunks of elusive comestibles dissolve in his mouth breezed his mind; no art, no science, no sex!
Panting heavily, trying to breathe with his mouth open, he strained his mind desperately to bechance upon a scrumptious treat, but in vain. All he could think of was a bowl of cereal. He was slenderly disappointed with the food he had stumbled upon; but this shrewd traitor-like feeling was overshadowed by the respite brought by leastwise being able to find something to ruminate.
Precipitously and miraculously, like a flash of lightning, a roar of thunder, like a tempest being born from the womb of mother earth, the oceans, the mountains, the forests all conspiring with the new born, their temporary sibling, to beget a horrendous catastrophe; rushed in his thoughts, in a turbulent flow pushing him back with a hazardous punch making him hold his head, crawl on the floor and writhe in pain.
After a while, when his pain attenuated and his fear subsided, he sat up with renewed vigour, he rubbed his eyes and looked around with blurry yet focussed vision. With an abstract sense of clarity he saw the image of a bowl of cereal on the white wall in front of him; it seemed as if the picture was being projected by his mind onto the screen.
When a storm gets over destroying everything, it makes place for the new, and so happened with his mind; he was being able to THINK. His thinking process was marked by simplicity, discarding the varied inconsistencies of haywire language and incongruous rhetoric malapropisms. He started pondering over the bowl of cereal he could see before his eyes. Cereals, well, he loathed to have them. He imagined the cereals as adversities and the milk as the courage to deal with the adversities. Some people can gulp down the cereals with less milk, some with more milk, some with no milk at all. He was one who always used more milk and just swallowed the cereals along with the milk. His cereals used to turn into a mucilaginous paste, but he preferred that to the crunchy stuff, if not enjoyed it. He thought about it philosophically, some people can deal with affliction with little courage and yet succeed in getting over them, some people need a lot of courage to deal with disasters, and some plain indifferent ones just slip along giving troubles naught a thought. He was someone who needed a lot of courage to face calamities. But, corrupted and defiled by egotism and his own coherently unethical arrogance, justifiable only before his bereaved myopic vision, he decided to encounter adversity head on. It was, as expected an inelastic collision. Adversity took him along with it and drowned him in its oblivion mists and turned him into this. Why did he try to swallow the cereals without milk? He choked. His throat hurt, he felt the roughness of the cereals bruising the inner lining of his oesophagus, his saliva failing to make it any better.
Knock! Knock! He felt someone knock at his mind's door. Swiftly he returned from his state of philosophical pleasure to raspy reality. He found out that he was actually choking. He wasn't being able to breathe. What was happening? Where was he? He had so many questions on his mind, to which there were no answers and as it seemed, no time to find the answers. His wispy remembrance of deportation flashed before his eyes. That led to more questions. Who was he? Was he a soldier who was captured by enemies? Was he a traitor who was court-martialed? Was he a mafia don? Did he do something wrong? Was he wronged? So many!
Whatever doubts he had in his mind, remained so, but he was absolutely certain about one thing, he was being stifled to death. Again, questions. Why wasn't he in a wicked cell? Why was he put in this white walled scary cubicle? He wasn't mad, was he? He shouted to let them know that he was not mad, he wanted to die like a normal person and not like this. Oh,wait! What country was that? Would they understand his language? Again, was he really mad, and got cured phenomenally just then? Yet, he didn't cease shouting; he put tremendous pressure on his vocal chords to produce some sound, he felt his throat get sore and blood oozing out and greasing the walls of his throat; he coughed out blood staining the white floor giving it a devilish look, the blood spilt on the floor grinning at his misery; but not a sound was produced.
He lay there breathing his last breaths, and was soon still and stiff like an inanimate object.
He lay there amidst the white walls like a speck of cereal in a bowl of milk.
He, his thoughts were confined to a bowl of cereal.