He took a long drag on his cigarette as he sat at the desk. He rummages amongst papers to look busy, then laughed to himself when he realized he didn't have to. No one was watching. No one would care if he sat still or looked as if he had a goal.
The ash landed on his bare arm. He winced, but didn't even bother to wipe it off. What was the point?
This was the third week he'd done this. Like a ritual, once night fell, he sat. He sat and thought. No one questioned this, probably because the only people who might care were too busy with work, school, or nursing their own wounds. He didn't mind. They had their lives, and he just wasn't a big part of theirs. He understood this fully - He wasn't worth the trouble. He wasn't particularly smart, he wasn't very funny, not handsome enough to garner attention, and too mediocre in all aspects to warrant any sort of attention.
In this world, the greatest problem is not having one. People identify by two things - Their successes, and their problems. Success was obvious. Why wouldn't one take pride in their victories over the obstacles life threw at them? Hell, even those born with a silver spoon earned that right by being the fasted seed to reach their bitch mother's womb.
But problems were a modern badge. In the old days, villages would kill children if they were born blind, sick, deaf, misshapen, even just left handed. Later in life, the slightest hint of mental instability would result in banishment, social isolation, or death. Right or wrong, breaking away from average in this sense was a bad thing. Nowadays, people take something wrong with them and push it out. Make people see it. Make people love it. Use it like a homing beacon to attract others. Identity.
So, people made problems. Suddenly, there's something wrong with everyone. Physical handicap, mental degradation, emotional trauma, anything they could get their hands to make them special. To make them unique. Successes mattered less. Mediocrity and normalcy were shunned.
And when he couldn't find something wrong with himself, so was he.
Another ash landed. He didn't wince this time. He had forgotten he was smoking. He put the cigarette out on his forearm.
It hurt, at first. But it didn't matter to him. Pain was a physical response to harmful outside stimulus. The fact that it hurt was a reminder that some things made sense.
He was done. He knew the world wasn't going to change for him, and try as he might, he could not change for the world. The knife on his desk waited, folded, to be picked up and made an instrument. The music it was made for was the cruelest dissonance composed. Pain, hurt, death. People wept for it's listener, mourned his fate, prayed for his safeguard. the composer worked endlessly, strenuously, to complete his work. Failure could not be an option.
If performed correctly, the music was a release. The audience would be enthralled. Freed from the breathe that kept them alive.
He stared. It waited. The sonata demanded to be played.
He stared.
The night outside waned. Soon, the sun would rise.
The man stood up, and went to shower. It was a new day. And he had an appointment to keep tomorrow night.
(Original date 10/30/2009)
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