Factorizing a day

Refactoring

It doesn’t end, does it? There is stunning equilibrium in the process of continuity. And then there is Cold war, when thought makes a friendly visit. Then we change, as we are consumed by the onset of this cold war. A war in itself. In one’s self.

He picked up his toothbrush, to make the gentle to and fro motion, brushing his thoughts, organizing them for the clock to strike the right time. Hoping the clock adds second upon second, without having to go back, to reframe the past; the froth in every stroke, without the foul smell of decay.

The glass was left in its half. Half full of water. He drank half of it that quenched his thirst. With the thud of the glass, he watched the ripples on the surface dying with time. He tapped it a little and watched the process, again and again. Half full or half empty, the essence is the same. For him, it was how much was drunk and how much is left. He put on his coat to extinguish the day.

The tiny drop of sweat wet his shirt. He left it to itself. The cloth in his pocket would cool it down sooner. The longer it stays, the longer it is exposed to air, the longer he could feel the effect of evaporation. Perspiration cools me down, he thought. A day’s work is counted in your breath.

He talked to his friend over the phone. He gazed more at the shining stars on his ceiling than he spoke to her. The tick of the fourteen hour clock that counted his day constantly faded every word she spoke. But when the tired mind overcame the rush of thoughts, the eye joined lids. Six hours hence, he reopened his eye to brush, to tap the glass, to sweat and to talk (his friend willing to respect his strange sense of listening.)

When days tick in equilibrium, change appears as a distant black dot.

The thought made a friendly visit to his mind. Would his teeth be any whiter with a different stroke? Would a full-glass of water show an exit to his body toxins? While he questioned himself on those, he called his friend to get at least one answer. Would you have been closer to me if I listened to you with intent? Or would I just seek answers to my questions staring at stars of nothing?

The war brings in potential signs of loss. Loss of oneness or loss of what we have or what we may have. The black dot far away might pick pace, as a big red block.

The He is me. The He is you. He might just be us.