Future Musings - Part 1

Lyte

            The wall is cold to the touch of my hand. My eyes are still blurry, but I can see the stupid clock on my visual display before the blood can get to my eyes. The wall’s texture feels rougher than usual. I clasp my hand. My skin is dry. This is real. I get up, put my arms up, stretch, the little pockets of air between my knuckles and my joints pop. The Sun is out. Shut the window. Rub my eyes. Walk to the bathroom. Sit. Pee. Wash hands. Walk to the kitchen, then dispense cereal. It is Frosted Flakes. No milk today. Sit at the table. Run my hand through my hair, feel around the back of my ear for my Synapse.  Breathe. Pop open a window on the visual display. Put a flake in my mouth. Crunch. Open “Wilshire Apartments Ticketing System”.

            Lots to do today. Lots to do. Need to do all the normal stuff. Like, vacuum the hallways, water the garden, check the laundry room, and clean the elevators. Apartment #21 has a ticket saying their bathroom bulb is broken. #4’s water stopped working. #73 windows blinds are falling apart. A few people have tickets saying the 3^rd dryer is broken, #6 put up a sign on it. #25 wants a copy of last Tuesday camera log in the garage, cause he thinks the girl from #32 hit his car. Four more requests on the page. Ten more pages after that. Everything will not be finished today.

            Close the window. Close my eyes. Breathe. I just need to do some of this, I need to work for the next eight hours, then I can relax. Open my eyes. Dispense water. Pop open a bottle of Sorelium. I need it, so I can focus, tune out and get it done. The little pill looks so plain in my hand. Put it on my tongue, drink, then swallow. The water carries it down my throat until it vanishes. Thoughts vanish, hands move on their own, the Sorelium flows through me. Out the door.

            Down the hall. Open the closet. Get the vacuum. First floor. Second floor. Eight floor.

Fifteenth floor. Twenty-second floor. Clean. Elevators clean. The flowers smell good. I should have gotten a jacket. Wave hello to the kids from #52 and their mom. Give the old lady in #13 a bag of groceries she left in the elevator. Wash my car. Eat a bagel. Puke in the garage. Clean it.

            Got through three pages of tickets. I smell bad. Shower. I am feeling me again. The light coming through the bathroom window is orange. The Sun is going down. Breathe. That is it. No more for today. It never feels like I got anything done. I am never sure how much I really did. I just trust that if I crossed it off the list that it got done. No one complains, so it probably got done. If I did not have the clock on the display, I would forget what time it was. What day. If I took off the Synapse, I feel like the green square around the clock would be burned into my retina. But it is not on my eye. It is in my brain. I forgot to dry myself.  My hair is too long. I am too pale. My t-shirt hides my thin frame. Too skinny. Too boney. Too tired. I look like an undead. My nose is stuffy. I fall on my bed. My sheets are cool. I hug my body pillow. I need to eat more, but I am not hungry.

            I close my eyes. The clock is still there. Open a web browser in the darkness. I always half expect it to illuminate the space between my eyelids and my pupil.  I open the Stream network. I dive into the first story I see.