Bookmarked at page 35

Although a bit old and sounding shaky, its memory is still sharp as ever. That vintage 70’s alarm clock never fell behind and still reports to duty on schedule. That night wasn't an exception.

At 20:10 it fulfilled its chore and retrieved him from his usual nap.  The alarm eased but the sounds kept aggressing. He tried to ignore their existence and engage in his daily routine, like the endless search for a remote that he’ll never find and the deceased corridor bulb he’ll never change. A cup of coffee In hand he slips in his comfy chair geared up with reading glasses, and a book, bookmarked at page 30.  The few sanctuaries that silence ruled were overtaken by the loud angry reverberations; he had barely gone through 5 pages, before leaping to that window, with the intention of cursing this transparent gap in his cocoon for being too tolerant.

Since that window was unbiased, it had a 2 way tolerance. It offered him a glance of the outer world. He recognized the voices and matched them to the faces. He knew them from a lost far childhood. Back Then, they were little boys, had flashing toys with annoying sounds. Although they shared the same underground shelters and their shadows roamed by the light of the same candles, He never played with them, they played rough but somehow his evading maneuvers didn’t seem to matter, since they used to find their way to play in his corner, on his mattress, spill his water, slay his moments…

And here they are now, still little boys with gray hair, they have even bigger flashing toys with agonizing sounds; they made holes wherever they flashed their gadgets. Some of them going down, turning to dust, blown to names on a wall. Walls where filled with names, some of similar letters, but that didn’t matter since they have built new walls to write upon. They kept going down, and toys kept getting bigger and sounds reached divine heights …

He never did understand their logic, and even lead a silent rebellion against whoever governed Time and Mythologies for awarding them the ability to influence others' journeys in this life.

New names were being written on new walls.

He didn’t want to take part of this, they still play rough but somehow his evading maneuvers don’t seem to matter.  One of these boys dancing with rejoice with his new plaything, flashed it towards a gap in a cocoon, it went right through it, he was right, it was too tolerant.

The old shaky alarm reported to duty the minute sunlight broke through a shattered glass window… he didn’t wake up, floating in his own crimson “elixir” flowing from a window through his heart , crawling to all corners of this space , passing by a chair, patting a dusty lost remote under an unstable wooden desk, over which a night lamp still seeks to warm up a cold cup of coffee, and an open book bookmarked at page 35.

[this post is dedicated to sane people (if any)  in my homeland ]