The Stories forum is long dead and buried, so I post here this short (non civilisation related) story in a suitable substitute forum. Comments and criticsms are welcomed. Thank you in advance for them
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If one was silly enough to do so, one could slowly and quietly creak open a strange, seemingly organic door that would lead to a thousand pathways of oneÕs own choosing, each pathway intertwining with another, until they finally reach a common destination, a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel; whereupon, if one were silly enough to do so, one would say ÒBugger it, that was a bloody waste of time.Ó
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'(Insert Famous Quote on Life Here)'
ÔSometimes,Õ reflects Vlad, Ôdreams are much more tame than realityÕ. This one, for example, is really quite ordinary. He is sitting on a comfortable dining chair: his hands are reaching cautiously, almost in slow motion, towards a knife and fork, picking them up in an oh-so-delicate manner; yet the whole scene feels so vague and unclear.
Vlad thinks for a moment about rousing himself a bit earlier, but instead decides to wait until his alarm clock wakes him. He suddenly grows impatient, however----he dislikes the annoying, almost morbid manner in which ÔhisÕ hands move towards the cutlery. Suddenly, he sees them age in a seemingly subtle manner, until they decay, the flesh beginning to fall from its now dirty, disintegrating bones.
A bell tolls: Death looks up from his table, realising he has work to do. The bell tolls once more, confusing Death~Vlad. The bell quickens in pace, jolting him into the realisation that the alarm clock is now ringing. It is time, he decides, to rise for the dawning of a new and sparkling day.
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VladÕs eyes flap open. The first thing he doesnÕt notice are bright beams of light travelling through his bedroom window. It is a dark and murky new day. His legs quietly work their way off the bed, almost as if of their own volition: one could almost picture the rest of VladÕs body proceeding off the bed in the same fashion, moving in the manner of a corpse-like puppet being pulled by unseen strings attached to each of its limbs. His body moves onto the floor and copious amounts of breath are emitted from its lungs.
Our protagonistÕ gradually becomes more coordinated, and were it not for the fact that his eyes appear blood red and his movements remain as graceful as those of a lumbering giant, one might almost believe him to be pondering some intellectual matter of great importance. He near slips over some irresponsibly scattered clothes on the floor, yet continues on his epic journey towards the closet. His feet do not so much lift themselves up as slither along in an apathetic manner, as if he were mesmerised by some enchanting spell.
By his bed is a desk where lie multitudes of papers and books, a tissue box with a typically bland, uninteresting painting on it, and some various items of stationery of a nondescript nature, all piled upon each other in a myriad of chaotic positions. One might wonder if there was some method to this madness. Surprisingly enough, there is: whichever item was last used is dumped on top of the pile, above the rest of the seemingly derelict papers and writings.
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My headache devours my mind as a thousand maggots feeding on the corpses of the newly dead. It is not every day that I am visited by a headache such as this, especially during the morning. I suspect, however, that the headache shall continue on its path of destruction until it finds either it or me dead, irrespective of my feelings as to the ungodly hour of day during which I must awaken. My thoughts try to placate the headache with vain promises-"cannot humankind and headaches live in peace? Are we not both dependent upon the same brain to survive? Is not my death also yours?"-Yet to no avail. This is a heartless, Kamikaze headache, which has no thought for its own survival. At this realisation, the pounding in my mind begins to lessen, almost as if I had made my enemy feel pangs of guilt or sympathy. Maybe headaches also have headaches?
I refocus my eyes and move on to the task at hand -- clothes. I examine my closet: Shirt-check; Pants-check; Jumper-check; Socks-check. It is time to meet the world outside once more, as soon as I have taken some Panadols -- headaches, I have decided, deserve no sympathy.
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Vlad exits the doorway of his home, entering the world outside. He ambles towards a bus stop that is some fifty metres away, and though his legs appear to walk with purpose, his mind wanders away, now entertaining itself with thoughts that it hopes will be deeply philosophical, but are, as he points out to himself, really quite unoriginal. They have probably been reflected upon millions of times during the chronicles of time, and will probably be reflected upon another thousand times by others on this planet by the time the day is out. So what was the point, he asks, of thinking about them? None. Zero. Zilch. Either because it doesn't exist or cannot be found, it is impossible to encounter the "Truth", as he disdainfully yet reverently puts it, so there is no point in searching for it. An amusing thought occurs to him: were he to turn religious in the future, he would no doubt think upon these past musings as his vain attempts to "kick open a concrete wall whilst an open door stood next to him."
He peers at his watch for a moment: he is early, for once. Usually, it would be a battle of luck and speed between É. and the bus driver, a battle which É. never really loses so much as tires from. Today, however, no such running will be necessary, and É. mutters thanks, if only out of some strange habit, to a God he does not believe in.
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I stare down at the grass in front of me. Its colour is a cliched, summer grass green, and its every blade is moving in complete synchronisation with the occasional gusts of wind that drift past. I look upwards, mentally noting that the rumbling thunder in the sky is almost reminiscent of the cannons of warfare. It almost disturbs me that I should think of such a comparison, yet I shoulder the thought aside as I suddenly realise that the murky clouds above me are peering down towards the earth, deciding to once more assault it with their armies. They begin with a cautious foray into onto some objects below; blades of grass are the first casualties of war as they are bombarded with the gunpowder of the Heavens. The number and size of the cannonballs quickly increases, as the anger of the clouds is provoked by the lack of initial success. Wave after wave of artillery fire hits and bursts onto the earth, leaving indelible craters in the surface of the previously undisturbed earth. But Heaven remains unsatisfied, for though its main forces are spent, it decides to fight on to the last bullet. The final rounds of shrapnel burst forth into their future resting places, seemingly having so little effect on the world, yet, at the same time, giving so much to its transient dwellers.
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Vlad walks quietly towards the approaching bus, his head hanging downwards and his eyes looking towards the concrete path below. The portal to the large automobile in front of him sidles open hesitantly and É steps onto the bus. His straggling, moonwalk-like steps to his seat are near constantly interrupted by the strange, rhythmic start-stop pattern of the bus's movement. Conversations begun long before his arrival continue with indifference. What he can hear from others amounts virtually to random words or syllables, some chuckles, an occasional laugh, or even a gasp from neighbouring travellers, and all the while the bus continues its start-stop rhythm, pushing É.. back and forth, back and forthÉ
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Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Whatever happens, just ignore it. Ignore your face occasionally hitting the seat in front of you. Ignore the people beside you and their inane conversation. Try to ignore everything as much as you can. Close your eyes.
Everything is calm. There is no bus here. You are sitting on a beach, well away from anyone who would scream at anything but bad service at some shore-side cafŽ; everything is fine. There is no rubbish on the floor. No, that person behind you who talks as if through a giant trombone doesnÕt exist. He is a figment of your imagination. All that exists is the shore, and the waves, and that thankfully empty juice box that was thrown onto your head.
Breathe. BreatheÉ
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Vlad recalls that he never really did like that person behind him. Especially when he throws juice boxes all over the bus. He remembers better days than these- from not so long ago-and decides that such recollections are silly and shouldnÕt be done for penalty of beating the life out of oneself. Flashback recollections, like tautologies and word repetitions, are completely unacceptable in oneÕs mental thought processes-at least when they are written down. It would be better, he reflected, to think of that crater mark that his head had made on the seat in front of him.
A girl in a lower year decides not to sit in her seat; she consequently ruins the whole seating arrangement, forcing newcomers to scramble for space in the beloved-nay, enshrined- back of the bus. An irritated grumbling spreads through the older passengers, demanding that the younger students sit three in a seat as had had been the convention way back when they too were in primary school. Like every other time this threat passes through the bus, it is not taken up in the slightest way; the seniors prefer apathy to the comfort of one person to a seat. Instead, they favour their endless complaining about the pathetic qualities of the movie they are watching (ÒWeÕve seen this one beforeÉ.Ó ÒThis has to be the worst movie IÕve ever seenÉÓ).
A traffic light turning red ahead proves not warning enough for Vlad, who is pushed forwards yet again to the seat in front of him.
Vlad Swivels his head sidewards and stares outside the window, the sight of the cars and trucks outside providing him with ample leisurely viewing activities.
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It is at this point, in mid transit, where drivers are driving and doing nothing more, that people resemble most closely a colony of ants, all of them moving in slightly different directions from the rest, but all towards some great Common Purpose that serves them all.
I see the light turn green and the bus picks up speed to join the rest of the colony; yet, as I do, it seems to me that we mere ants have no idea what our purpose, if any, is. Perhaps we are not ants, then. Perhaps we are instead merely living for the sake of living but cannot fathom it-let alone admit it. Perhaps we are then as animals, living without knowledge or purpose, only to continue our bloodline and perpetuate our influence upon the universe surrounding us, seeking to achieve some sort of impossible immortality.
It is funny that I think these thoughts now, on a bus of all places, a place filled with laughter and boredom and joy and happiness and people whose eyes do not remain open so much as occasionally refuse to be shut. Or is it?
Yet spouting some sort of terrible philosophy is not the point of my thoughts. What is the point of my thoughts, you wonder? I honestly have no idea. Perhaps to convey myself to the world; a sick sort of autobiography, if you will: an autobiography that reveals very little, really. So, perhaps, merely some writings on the state of my mind-how it operates, what it is, and similar notions of the same origin, intention, and classification. Perhaps it may also be boastful, to a point: an egotistical work from a narcissistic and egotistical-as well as lazy-person. Who knows? Perhaps you out there, one of the teaming masses of the world, may hold the key to this bolted, locked, shuttered, and fenced out doorway of my mind. Then at least one of us might know what exactly I'm talking about. Perhaps this writing may also be a self-criticism of some sort-although I no doubt overestimate my abilities as well as intelligence if I think that I am sub consciously insulting myself.
It seems that I have exchanged the spouting of inane rambling of one topic for the inane rambling of another; so I shall, perhaps, quieten down for a moment and allow myself to continue narrating properly.
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The bus' brakes begin to slowly grind the wheels to a halt, and VladÕs eyes flicker towards the window; the large creaking mixture of cogs and wheels stops at the bus parking area. A well-polished and clean sign by the entrance reads: " Unknown private school of Nondescript Identity"; by it is a logo of some mythical animal with words from an archaic language written below it. The bus door opens, and a slow trickle of students begin to exit the bus. Soon, they will meet their friends and discuss topics unknown though easily guessed at.
Vlad walks out of the bus and towards the open area beside him, ready to right the wrongs, defend the weak, feed the hungry, bite the bullet, dare to dream, and the like. He walks towards his locker- a sordid and squalid container crammed next to hundreds of others of its kind. Though these lockers belong to different people, they are another aspect of daily life that exudes sameness-the same chewing gum strategically placed at the corner of the locker; the same label stating locker number and row; the same bland painted blue colour. No hint of individuality creeps out from inside the locked doors of these lockers; the only visible sign of any difference between them all are single digits printed on their labels. By the time he has arrived at his locker, the hallway in which it is situated is overflowing with people, talking, joking, smirking, worrying, and eating. Somewhere inside this crowded sardine can are the stereotypes of the student world: the unexplainably cheerful girl who laughs before she hears the joke; the conscientious and quiet hardworking girl who never says a word in class; the crowd of obsessively athletic kids whose conversation topics can never veer from their beloved sports teams; as well as others unmentioned here that have hopefully been jogged back into the reader's own memories.
The irritatingly loud bell sounds out once more, hurting with its echo the ears of more than one student in the corridors. Though actually meant as a signal for the start of the lesson in question, this bell has devolved in purpose to become a warning for students to begin preparations for their classes. Not surprisingly, this deliberate evasion of school rules becomes the primary call to battle of any power crazed and egotistical new teacher out to save the world of education one detention at a time.
After a few seconds, most of the students have finished taking out their books and closing their lockers (except those whose buses had come late, a daily occurrence for many). Within a few moments, the hallway will be as deserted as it was some mere ten minutes previously, when the only sparse movements present were the flutters of chip packets on the wind that wafted slowly from the slightly open doorway.
Wow, 6 big paragraphs just to get out of bed and dressed. It felt like waiting for half-frozen molassess to pour out of a carton onto some cereal. 
