The precipice of mind and time. Here and There. Now and Then.
You. And Me.
In another life, I was a small store owner. I had little to my name. I had a house that served as both my residence and workplace. I made clocks. Tick, tock, tick, tock, day by day, they ticked and tocked into the ether of forever.
I had three outfits, and one pair of shoes. I had one bedsheet. A pantry with one week worth of food. A pillow for my head. A small music box for music. A mouse problem. A fluffy named Timone.
Timone slept at the foot of my bed. I slept to the off-center of it, towards the right hand side. I slept on my stomach most of the night, and rolled over onto my back before I woke up. I had breakfast, consisting of a slice of toast, cream cheese, an egg, and two thirds a glass of water. It is efficient and without mistakes.
I tinkered in my shop to assemble the clocks. Tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking away, hundreds at any given moment. It is efficient and without mistakes.
They were counting.
I sold three clocks. One made to be a miniature grandfather clock. One was a wall mounted birdhouse. One was a coffin.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking away into the wind. It’s all wind. Everything is wind. Everything is fire. Everything is.
I did not eat lunch. Work comes first. Lunch took up time and food.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking away at the rough edges of wood. I made another coffin clock. It wasn’t for sale.
I ate my dinner. One slice of toast, cream cheese, an egg, and two thirds a glass of water. It is efficient and without mistakes.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking of the music box as it plays the music carved into the center of the contraption. It’s a nameless melody. It has no meaning. It has no deeper feelings to convey. It is efficient and without mistakes.
I am alone. I am not sad. I am by myself.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking of the bottoms of my shoes as I slowly ascend the staircase of my building into my bedroom.
I sit alone. I do not sit in sadness. I sit by myself.
Timone has been with me all day. He has not made a sound. He sits straight up, never wavering. I do not hear the tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking of his hooves as he moves around.
He is sitting with me.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking of the hammer of the pistol in my ear. I aim it behind my temple, pointed forwards, so that the bullet will enter my skull efficiently and without mistakes.
I have no greater purpose to reflect on. No accomplishments worthy of memoir. No family or friends that may rely on me. No great pains or struggles to overcome. I am efficient and without mistakes. It is my burden that I may never grow old. It is my burden that I may never create. It is my burden that I have nothing to live for, not even the hope of strife to overcome.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking of the trigger as it pulls back. There is a loud pop for only a moment. I slump forward, gazing at the stuffed body of Timone, my companion. He will never know I am gone.
I feel my life leave me. I feel no remorse. I feel no pain. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing.
I felt nothing.
This is it. Probably my last story, if not for a good while, then ever, at least here. Realistically it’s a stretch to call this a “fluffy story” n̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶p̶p̶e̶d̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e, but fuck it.
I know this one is super grim and just straight up a bad time, but A. fuck your feelings, and B. I wanted to express my departure in a way that I feel I can also make something of. I guess in this case that suicide happens to anyone, for any reason, anywhere, and anytime, and there’s really nothing you can do to stop that. Also cause dark stories are way easier for me to write than some optimistic happy shit (pray those drafts never see the light of day).
Anyways, that’s it. Another old guard bites the dust. I may every once in a blue moon come back to lurk but I doubt I’ll really be sticking around in any meaningful capacity. It’s time for the Emperor to shed his clothes.
Guten abend, my friends.
-Kaiser