Work Text:
Sunny day, few clouds. Mundane.
A graying woman had approached me on the bench. Kind smile, slowness of mind due to age; needed to remind her the topic of conversation – rats waltzing down the streets. Curious. Seems to be making townsfolk talkative, this newfound oddity.
–
My restlessness has led me to shady places such as bars with Hispanic tunes, nevertheless I cannot deny myself finer forms of culture engagement. The library of Oran possesses some tomes which had piqued my interest… Perhaps this is how one indulges in beauty when the physical world is horrid. (The town is charming, just utterly ugly while at it – how enticing!) Through words on paper.
–
Last time I had a housemate… must've been during fresh adulthood. Cozy, the sound of pots clacking and faraway chatter.
–
The nights are silent. Mme. Rieux looks out the window, even as the lamps dim. She sees something we do not.
–
At precisely 8:23 each evening Grand hurriedly leaves. Joyful fellow. Sweats profusely; hands constantly a little damp. Today I rhetorically asked, what has got him in such a rush? The elegant young horsewoman, of course. He explained how it's a necessity, otherwise his entire night would render unproductive – the opening phrase required a Spartan routine.
Many cases of unusual time calculation. Dried peas in saucepans, the stroll of a horsewoman…
–
Lots of things to be said of different infrastructures among the towns I've been. Though most of all it is the atmosphere I anticipate, and Oran possesses one of looming thunder like distant artillery. It is unappealing in form, delightfully so. But seemingly on the verge of calamity, too.
The mediterranean waters of Italy shone teal with glory, something akin to a promise. Clarity. Perhaps even destiny, for all great things must inevitably fall after their rise. Here, in Oran, the sea glooms. Not with waste or oil. As if the careful hands of fate skimmed over the thread. It naturally thinned with time.
–
In poetry, there is always a song – captivating, or cacophonic. Each to their own.
–
Through the crack between door and wall light seeps through. Down the carpet, reaches my bedframe. Rieux’s figure is visible from this spot. Hunched over the desk. Head lays limp on crossed arms.
Blanket lays over him. Relaxed posture, now. Mouth slightly agape. Eyelids twitching (Query: How to tell one's having a good dream? Answer: Observe patiently. Soft exhaling indicates calm.). Brows knitted; bit of a frown. Resisted the nagging impulse to smooth it out. Did not want to disturb. More chances to lay ahead certainly.
–
The low sough of the sea grows louder. Nobody else seems to hear. Used to it, conceivably.
It calls (Temptation? Freedom? Those prove synonymous.). I do not answer.
–
Chill weather manipulates breath to come out in fogged gusts. Childishness escapes me usually, but I couldn't help a tug of surprise when heading out for work this morning. Frostiness bites at faces tugged far into woolen scarves. The world is slowing. Winter, soft winter.
–
Wine makes one's body tingle pleasantly. Only a pleasure by occasion; excessive drunkenness should not be propagated. The taste of vomit in the back of one's mouth, not so pleasant.
–
Scattered shards of green glass. Dangerous. Reminiscent of tall windows in cathedrals. Imposing. Stared at for too long.
Walked past, wide berth.
–
A man's Adonis belt – altar made of sensitive flesh and thin adipose tissue. No wonder humanity has come up with gods reminiscent of men. It is exceptionally easy to fall into worship of such.
–
Rieux's bed proves unfit for two people. He is stubborn, and has a comfortable hold. His heartbeat. Steady. Like the drums of a soldier's march.
I decide to bite the bullet: the bed is small, I say. He agrees easily. What about his wife, I ask, where does she sleep, then? Long pause, the heartbeat suddenly uneven. I don't rise to look at his features, and taste a bile of regret.
Downstairs, where Mme. Rieux does now, he explains. I nod. Unusual. I would have asked further, were it a different circumstance. We do not say another word.
Pondering the lack of photographs down the halls. The walls are exceptionally empty.
Woke up with cramps, red lines down my arms and cheeks–and face pressed to Rieux's neck.
–
Ripe oranges at the store. Purchased. Paneloux’s guilty pleasure, it seems. His eyes lit up when I handed him one. Reminds him of when he was a little boy, he said.
So even those with a God to appease indulge in simple seemingly bothersome pleasures. Peeling an orange. Taking the longer route home. Conversation.
–
The curtains in my office. Subtle. Sun bleached lace. Yellowing.
A young couple walks outdoors, unhidden in their affections. Latest phenomenon: the disposal of shame, primarily among youth. Ownerless bra found on the hospital perimeters. Perhaps the patients – restless ones – occupy themselves.
–
Cheap rum burns. So does drinking in solitude.
–
Interrupted in the car. Prompted Rieux to keep going. Paying silent homage to tinted car windows.
–
Patch of moles down Rieux's spine. He shivers when my finger trails the dotted constellation. No fear. Bliss. How peculiar. He's not unaware of the things those calluses have done, yet he lets them cradle him.
Were we born two millennia ago, Eros’ arrow would have put me among the stars. Still, I prefer this.
–
How intimately can one know oneself?
The Greeks stipulated a maxim, know thyself. Broadly it equates to knowing your soul, though in our times the great thinkers began delving into whether such concept as a soul exists beyond its function as a made-up idea. I digress.
Furthermore, is one entirely dependent on others’ consciousness to legitimately exist. If erased from the perception of everyone one has known, does one – remain? A person's own mind is not enough. The material might as well be a mere delusion, then. Unless reality is a mass hallucination; could humanity will the evil away by wishing deep enough? If so, why doesn't it? The plague works against such movements effectively. Unstoppable force.
–
Laces, hopelessly knotted. He let me help. Tied them neatly.
Futile. The boots had been kicked off almost immediately.
–
My knees are quelling against their labour. In my defense: I have none.
–
Does questioning take one further or closer to sainthood? Lucifer's plummeting fate indicates one thing, although human beings are much flawed than angels. To be precise, allowed to be flawed.
How much of a man remains in a saint? How much is allowed?
–
Cottard skittish as ever, though steadily invasive. Why? I dare not think him suspecting our use of free time with Rieux. Would not wish to speak it into existence.
Perhaps his usual worries. The gates shall open soon, so it figures.