The Road Was Closed

The road was closed. The road was always closed. Why was it always closed? Because there was work being done. There was always work being done. Yes, but why was there always work being done? Noone knew, or at least noone seemed to know, but did anyone even ask? As far as one could discern or deduce nothing was ever finished, but all carried on as if this never-ending work was normal, and of course it was normal, for if something is always so then what can this be but normal?

Except that this is all lies, or if not all lies, as good as all lies- for the sake of appearances, some kind of metaphysics, some facile parable of despair and absurdism. For the truth is that the road wasn't always closed. It was closed now, true enough, and had been for a week or so, or perhaps even two, but what is a couple of weeks in the great scheme of eternity, and even allowing for the incompetence traditional to such work involving roads it can hardly be long before the road is back in its customary state of being open, even if, due to the mentioned incompetence, it should have to once again close for some stupid unforeseen reason or other.