simplicity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
simplicity) wrote2009-02-21 08:12 pm
simplicity) wrote2009-02-21 08:12 pm
the secret of death.
Writing a short story in installments. For fun, okays? If you read, please comment.
-1-
Routine.
Why do we like it so much? Order follows order; brushing teeth follows eating; getting changed follows getting out of bed. It's weird, how we attach to such simple systems. Like machines, we go about our daily life, until seconds, minutes, and hours pass as days. And yet, somehow, we're content. And that is what I don't understand.
I was 30 years old. I lived alone in my parent's summer house. When I was in my twenties, I would bring home girls for dinner. They would admire the view, we would have a lovely chat over a dinner that I had (metaphorically) cooked, and then we would watch a movie. Always the same. If they started to come close to me, I turned them out. I wasn't looking for a relationship. I was looking for a companion.
It became old, though. The girls became paper-thin, and sometimes I mixed one up with another. Instead of inviting them over, I met them at bowling alleys, or cafes, or corner-stores. They complained, of course they complained, but I couldn't risk them thinking they deserved to be at my parent's house. Because, and this is a fact: they didn't.
Living was simple. Mornings were easy: shower, get changed, eat a piece of toast, head out. Work was easier: file through paperwork, organize W2s and receipts in a small unpersonalized cubicle. After work, I came home. I went for a walk. Easy-peasie. I came home, microwaved my dinner, and ate silently at the island in the middle of the kitchen. Sometimes I would go for a walk again, and bring a book, if it was light enough out. If not, I read on the porch, with the beach's waves echoing ahead.
Days passed and somehow I got older. And older. And suddenly I was pushing on 40 and I hadn't remembered anything that had happened in the ten years that had passed. But, and I don't know why, it was okay. I was an easygoing guy. I knew it'd be okay.
One night after work I went for a walk, as per my usual routine. I passed the golden retriever that lived next door, the four toddlers splashing around in the water. I passed the Mexican who lived a couple doors away. I passed a housewife, who saw me and waved, as she did every day. I waved back. Everything was normal, as it should be. But, in the moment I took to wave back at the housewife, I saw a look of concern pass her (quite lovely) features. This quickly turned into horror. She pointed, horrified, at something behind me. Squeaks came from her mouth as she tried to form words that would save me. But she couldn't. Because by the time she had started saying "Watch out!" I was already dead on the sand.
-1-
Routine.
Why do we like it so much? Order follows order; brushing teeth follows eating; getting changed follows getting out of bed. It's weird, how we attach to such simple systems. Like machines, we go about our daily life, until seconds, minutes, and hours pass as days. And yet, somehow, we're content. And that is what I don't understand.
I was 30 years old. I lived alone in my parent's summer house. When I was in my twenties, I would bring home girls for dinner. They would admire the view, we would have a lovely chat over a dinner that I had (metaphorically) cooked, and then we would watch a movie. Always the same. If they started to come close to me, I turned them out. I wasn't looking for a relationship. I was looking for a companion.
It became old, though. The girls became paper-thin, and sometimes I mixed one up with another. Instead of inviting them over, I met them at bowling alleys, or cafes, or corner-stores. They complained, of course they complained, but I couldn't risk them thinking they deserved to be at my parent's house. Because, and this is a fact: they didn't.
Living was simple. Mornings were easy: shower, get changed, eat a piece of toast, head out. Work was easier: file through paperwork, organize W2s and receipts in a small unpersonalized cubicle. After work, I came home. I went for a walk. Easy-peasie. I came home, microwaved my dinner, and ate silently at the island in the middle of the kitchen. Sometimes I would go for a walk again, and bring a book, if it was light enough out. If not, I read on the porch, with the beach's waves echoing ahead.
Days passed and somehow I got older. And older. And suddenly I was pushing on 40 and I hadn't remembered anything that had happened in the ten years that had passed. But, and I don't know why, it was okay. I was an easygoing guy. I knew it'd be okay.
One night after work I went for a walk, as per my usual routine. I passed the golden retriever that lived next door, the four toddlers splashing around in the water. I passed the Mexican who lived a couple doors away. I passed a housewife, who saw me and waved, as she did every day. I waved back. Everything was normal, as it should be. But, in the moment I took to wave back at the housewife, I saw a look of concern pass her (quite lovely) features. This quickly turned into horror. She pointed, horrified, at something behind me. Squeaks came from her mouth as she tried to form words that would save me. But she couldn't. Because by the time she had started saying "Watch out!" I was already dead on the sand.