- Joined
- Dec 24, 2025
- Messages
- 234
- Time Online
- 15h 11m
- Reputation
- 716
The entirety of earth’s literature couldn’t put into words the facets of his temperament. It was like he was gold, silver, bronze, and rust simultaneously. Like a hamster on a wheel, his thoughts cycled, stopping only during sleep, regaining momentum as the morning decayed into noon and then into night.
Naire found himself awake one day, at the foot of his bed, the dust in his bedroom suspended in the morning’s clotted light. Content with starting his day with coffee and cigarettes, he desired nothing short of an “action packed” day of manual labor, busy thoughts of societal contributions, and the ebb and flow of the work day.
Carol, his ex wife, a masseuse from the Florida Keys, still had a joint account attached to his name. Every transaction came up on his phone as a notification. Fifteen dollars and some odd change at a gas station. One hundred and fifty dollars and some odd change at a clothing store. Twenty-three dollars and fifty cents at a pharmacy. It was strangely comforting to see Carol living life, tracking her, just by viewing her transactions. It was like a glimpse into a family portrait of which you no longer belong. And yet all these transactions made him sad. Sad in a way which cannot be mended with flowers, hugs, or kisses. It was a sadness for a life lived in chaos. However, somehow he envied that chaos. He envied her complete ignorance of her obliterated existence.
For him, every day was the same routine; awake, work , shower, masturbate, cry, think, sleep. Despite being so busy that the days all seemed to be one unending session, he somehow still found the time to be idle.
At the foot of the bed, after much thinking, a cold like no other fell upon him. His hands were frozen and his teeth were chattering. His head and face felt warm, however. His heart raced and pounded in his chest. His lips cracked. His stomach was turning, rotating, dancing, jumping. He had felt this cold before, yes, and went to the urgent care at which he vomited and passed out. They had diagnosed him with dehydration. But it was now unexplainable why he was feeling this way. He had drank over sixteen ounces of water the previous night with no alcohol or any other factors that could have contributed to his condition. This great cold depth was like a visitor in his flesh coming to tell him something. But it wasn’t speaking. It was just standing at the door without expression, in the nude, in the light. Clutching his abdomen and bowing slightly, he suddenly was alleviated of his ignorance. The cold spoke. It said it was Death and that it was there to rehearse and familiarize itself with the new stage.
Naire thought of the earth spinning on its axis and, for some reason, the streets Tokyo and thousands of moving cars like they show in movies when a montage plays with music overlayed onto it. The abrupt abandonment of his routine followed. No more cycles. No more futile wakes. No more smiles upon seeing Carol’s transactions. Futility. He threw himself back into the indent on his bed and abandoned, also, his wakefulness.
Naire found himself awake one day, at the foot of his bed, the dust in his bedroom suspended in the morning’s clotted light. Content with starting his day with coffee and cigarettes, he desired nothing short of an “action packed” day of manual labor, busy thoughts of societal contributions, and the ebb and flow of the work day.
Carol, his ex wife, a masseuse from the Florida Keys, still had a joint account attached to his name. Every transaction came up on his phone as a notification. Fifteen dollars and some odd change at a gas station. One hundred and fifty dollars and some odd change at a clothing store. Twenty-three dollars and fifty cents at a pharmacy. It was strangely comforting to see Carol living life, tracking her, just by viewing her transactions. It was like a glimpse into a family portrait of which you no longer belong. And yet all these transactions made him sad. Sad in a way which cannot be mended with flowers, hugs, or kisses. It was a sadness for a life lived in chaos. However, somehow he envied that chaos. He envied her complete ignorance of her obliterated existence.
For him, every day was the same routine; awake, work , shower, masturbate, cry, think, sleep. Despite being so busy that the days all seemed to be one unending session, he somehow still found the time to be idle.
At the foot of the bed, after much thinking, a cold like no other fell upon him. His hands were frozen and his teeth were chattering. His head and face felt warm, however. His heart raced and pounded in his chest. His lips cracked. His stomach was turning, rotating, dancing, jumping. He had felt this cold before, yes, and went to the urgent care at which he vomited and passed out. They had diagnosed him with dehydration. But it was now unexplainable why he was feeling this way. He had drank over sixteen ounces of water the previous night with no alcohol or any other factors that could have contributed to his condition. This great cold depth was like a visitor in his flesh coming to tell him something. But it wasn’t speaking. It was just standing at the door without expression, in the nude, in the light. Clutching his abdomen and bowing slightly, he suddenly was alleviated of his ignorance. The cold spoke. It said it was Death and that it was there to rehearse and familiarize itself with the new stage.
Naire thought of the earth spinning on its axis and, for some reason, the streets Tokyo and thousands of moving cars like they show in movies when a montage plays with music overlayed onto it. The abrupt abandonment of his routine followed. No more cycles. No more futile wakes. No more smiles upon seeing Carol’s transactions. Futility. He threw himself back into the indent on his bed and abandoned, also, his wakefulness.