Title Pending (Ch.1)

One day all this shall come to an end,

And new things will be allowed to begin,

But for now all life has a stunt on its growth.

Please, for now, give me reason for hope.

Be my walls, with all the padding in place,

Keep me from harm. Please, keep me safe.

06-15-06, Pop[~]Tart

Chapter 1: One Day All This Shall Come to an End



Looking out his window, he contemplated the first words normally said to one on most any morning. "Good morning", one would say to another. He understood why 'morning' was included in this greeting, as that is the proper title for this time of day, but as for why good would almost always be included, he had yet to understand. Perhaps, he thought, people were so obsessed in achieving their own happiness, they forced this word to come before the other in order to reinforce a promise of happiness for the day, even if it hadn't worked the day before, or even the one before that.



He climbed down from his window seat, a bay window, I guess it would be called, which over-looked the crowded morning streets from three floors above. Mumbling something about meaningless cockroaches, he gathered up his bag and walked out into the hall. After locking his door, he turned toward the stairs and began to descend. As he finally reached the first floor door leading out to the streets, his thoughts suddenly turned to what was to come all too soon. The sun, the heat, the people; his morning was looking "good" already! About as bright and cheery as his appearance and opinions, for sure.



Into the sun he went, immediately adorning his black shades. Damn, he thought, its too fucking bright. Nothing ever seemed to be going his way, no matter which way things happened to go, it seemed. He wasn't too awfully upset, because soon, he knew, he would be out of this heat lamp. Today was Thursday, The Lampshade would be open. He was always fond of the name, ever since he'd found it; it just seemed to suit the place.



With only a few blocks to walk, he figured he could tolerate the mindless cattle that were stampeding down either side of the street towards whatever meaningless existence they were so anxious to get to. As he slowly walked, hearing all the babble, passing cars and ridiculous booming bass, thoughts passed through his head; he wondered how long all of this will continue. Humanity is slowly declining, he thought. "We're all damned", he whispered out loud, hardly realizing he'd said it.



Suddenly he was standing in front of the darkly tinted doors of The Lampshade. Its amazing how quickly someone could get from one place to another while in thought. As he opened the door, he removed his shades. They weren't necessary in here, this place of dimmed lighting and dark furnishings. He moved towards the table he normally sat at and placed his pack down upon it.



Before he sat, he walked to the bar, trying to allow the music playing from all around to numb his mind just a little. He simply looked the bartender in the face, made some sort of an attempt at a smile, and the bartender made and placed his drink before him. He set the exact change on the counter, picked up his drink and returned to his table, taking a seat. The beat circulating through the room was distracting, but not in an obvious way. It just kind of took over, slowly, almost allowing one to be relieved from any troubling thoughts. Almost.



He closed his eyes, trying to let the music completely take him over. This attempt failed. All his life, he saw the slow and steady decline of everyone around him. Even in himself, he could see his own life having changed for the worse over time. He wished for a solution, a sort of destruction of all the old to make room for new creation and life. There was no way, he thought, that anything good could survive in any location on this planet with all of the bad, the negative which was bound to overwhelm.



He took a sip of his drink and opened his eyes. This was, he supposed, the proper atmosphere for such unpleasant thinking, and he was now in the perfect state of mind for writing. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a pen and a slightly worn leather-bound book. He leaned back against his seat, trying to let his mind relax, to get his words circulating properly through his head.



The dim lighting overhead started to flicker a little. He heard the bartender mumble something along the lines of "old piece-of-shit building". Lights flicker, he figured; shit happens. His pen touched paper, and words began to fill the page. It was a slow process, yet a steady one. The lights flickered again, and continued to do so. He was able to ignore it for a little while, but it eventually began to bother him.



He looked up and around to all the lights, still flickering, then over to the bartender. Just as he saw the 'what-the-fuck' look on the man's face, all light within the room went out. There were groans and grumbles of disapproval throughout the room by the few patrons who'd shown up so early in the day as he himself had done.



In a few moments, he told himself, my eyes will adjust. Yet after the normal few minutes it would take to do so, the adjustment never came. It now seemed to him as if he were suspended in a never-ending void. Around him, the words of frustration and confusion from those in the room seemed to fade and disappear into the blackness. He had never felt so alone.