Written Short: "I Don't Elate"

[Persnickety]

There is no story. There are no facts.
This is a morning of contemplation.
There are two things in the universe:
the universe, and me.​

It rings out politely, humming a simplistic and nasal serenade that could pleasure an ear sensitive to tone and key, but tone and key alone; for this rambunctious, little mechanism is a terrible bane upon our fragile sets of memory and association. Its tweeting and rhythmic ringing can be compared only to the cry of a cold and fearful infant lying on a chilled and rough concrete surface: devoid of any composure and musical quality, any one apart from the child's most endearing motherly figure, sensitive and passionate, would have to stifle their muted desires and desperation to displace the source of their intolerance and disgust. To the majority, this is an easy task, for human moralities and traditions have formed us civil and deem our primitive roots worthy of modern eschewal. For some, our ancestral and familial configurations are not as active and present.

Our fragile set of memories and associations come into play when the baby cries. My people and I slip messily through the nearest exit in our tangled maze of hours of discomfort and snatch the crying into our trembling grip. With our day's fate resting ironically in the hands of this oncoming gesture, we must decide either to displace or to silence the wavering tones growing only louder. We send a disoriented hand downwards,—our many hands are one in the absence of our mental veils and sunhats—and, at last, the cries cease if we successfully pinpoint its voice and terminate it. If we find no success, we try again, and our hands fall into their own habitual chaos, absent of rhythm and control to stop the mechanism before it begins to screech out its sinister whims to all who may hear beyond the blinded walls; their paper has seemingly left them meanwhile, as if it preferred not to watch and see.

As the sigh escapes my lungs,
I continue to think.
The only job that I have left
is to think upon my matters.

I get paid for it in a worldly currency.
Thank goodness that it's universal.

​

Spoiler

Spoiler

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[Nicrobe]

That's kind of the same for me. Except I don't lay in bed contemplating the philosphy inside the morning routine of turning off an alarm.



I do that shit in the toilet at 6 am. Pun is intended