Mindless Mediocrity
Walking through reality in a dream...
Wake. The light of the cycle stream in through Isaac’s window. One beam in particular strikes his right eye through a small hole in his window’s slatted shutters. The old wood has been rotting away for a few years now, clinging desperately to the nails that fight to hold the whole thing together.
Dress. He has five pairs of clothes that he regularly cycles through, each one the exact same as all the others. As he changes from one set to another, his thoughts can’t help but stray into the realm of fantasy. He reads about all sorts of clothes, and whenever he steps outside his home he seems many more. His eyes drink in all the possible colors and intricate patterns a single being could wear, shapes and sizes morphing into one another. Then he tugs at his plain shirt and unleashes a sad sigh. In another life, perhaps he would have been able to dress however he wanted.
Eat. It’s a bland meal of bread and crushed berries. His mother tries to engage in a conversation with him, but he doesn’t take. She’s worried about him. She’s worried about so many things all the time. Him. His father. Money. Shelter. Food. And the Guardians, of course.
Read. Even though it’s bright outside, it’s noisy, and noise is the last thing he wants to have ruin his quiet time. In the light of his candle - he’s going to need to get a new one soon - he immerses himself in the world beyond the small island of San Ovila. Of beings of all types and backgrounds indulging in adventure, facing perils he will never experience and achieving feats he will never accomplish.
Eat again. He has to make himself a dry sandwich with whatever there is on hand, which isn’t much. In a society that hates magic and all the beings that can use it, naturally it’s harder for them to make a living. Somehow, they’re just barely surviving with whatever coin they can get and food they are able to buy. At least the library is free for all… mostly.
Return to reading. He’s already on his third novel. Perhaps he’ll be able to squeeze in five books this cycle instead of his typical four. So long as he doesn’t take too much time eating dinner, which he might opt to skip this time.
Lie down. Isaac finally closes his book. His eyes are aching and bleary from all the hard squinting he has been doing. It’s dark outside his shutters. When it got that way, he doesn’t know. His head is spinning from the roaring of reality and perhaps his own tiredness. Standing from his desk, he snubs the tiny flame and throws himself onto his rickety bed. The ceiling is drenched in deep shadow as he listens to the distant waves crash against the island’s coast. There’s an oh-so-faint smell of sea salt that manages to drift its way into his room.
Reflect. Yet another cycle has gone by so fast, almost like a blur. The books he’s read are already joining the jumbled mess of hundreds of other stories. Hundreds of threads weave together, their beginnings, ends, and journeys in between indistinguishable from all the others. Concepts, ideas, and principles are all that remains depicted in this vast, invisible weave. He feels hollow, lost, stuck in a dream that doesn’t seem to have an end. Even though he blinks and shifts in his bed, it feels like he’s sleeping. The last time he lived in the waking world was… years ago. At least, that’s how long it feels to him. When every cycle is the same as the last, one tends to loose track of time quite easily.
He can’t begin to count how many cycles he’s wasted siting inside with his books, going through the same routine. It’s not enough to spark any emotion, but it weighs on his mind anyway. He hasn’t found his motivation to wake up and live, though it’s not like he’s looking for a way to sleep forever, either. He’s stuck in this strange in-between, unable to snap himself out of it.
Reality waits for him just beyond his front door. This dream has become stale and tired and fruitless. And yet, despite all of his self-awareness, he’ll likely do this all again next cycle.
Rest. Isaac rolls over.
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