The urbanite went about his days in an ordinary fashion. The mornings were brisk and the daylights were hollow and the evenings were alive in his mind, but little else. So little did the daily flesh and bread inspire him. So little did the barkings and chokings of fellow men give him stir. So little did the light reflect off of the world around him.
And with so little light reflected on one's self, shadows fester.
The urbanite passed a bench every blessed cycle of his routine. There it sat, off in the distance next to the condominiums and parkland. It looked content being alone, slated wood and all, simply content just to be there. The urbanite wondered if the bench would not look so content should someone come and sit on it, not that he had to worry about that. The urbanite had many things to worry about, but the bench was not one of them. And there the bench was, five steps behind him, and out of his mind. That precious room in his mind where the bench sat quickly became engulfed with thoughts of this and that and ifs and whens and howevers and all the good things that let in stress. But not benches; never benches.
Weeks ended, and there were urbanite chores to be done. It should be noted that these chores are not to be confused with his Chores, of which are a separate matter entirely. The urbanite's chores were never chosen of his own volition. The urbanite had the socialite for that. And the culturist. And occasionally the anarchist. The urbanite had other responsibilities than determining his own chores. Besides, he also had his Chores. One can only expect so much.
The socialite did many things, and he was very good at all of them. He tied strings and carved doorways and over the course of many seasons he even burrowed a network of tunnels beneath the city. He also dictated, with love of course. Were it not for the socialite's dictations, the urbanite would have succumb to eldritch whispers long ago. Or risen to shine in the light. Or landed somewhere in between, like exactly where he was so who's to say really. The moral of the socialite is that he made things happen on a regular basis, with varying degrees of value, which is more than that urbanite could say. Not that the urbanite cared.
And with so little light reflected on one's self, shadows fester.
The urbanite passed a bench every blessed cycle of his routine. There it sat, off in the distance next to the condominiums and parkland. It looked content being alone, slated wood and all, simply content just to be there. The urbanite wondered if the bench would not look so content should someone come and sit on it, not that he had to worry about that. The urbanite had many things to worry about, but the bench was not one of them. And there the bench was, five steps behind him, and out of his mind. That precious room in his mind where the bench sat quickly became engulfed with thoughts of this and that and ifs and whens and howevers and all the good things that let in stress. But not benches; never benches.
Weeks ended, and there were urbanite chores to be done. It should be noted that these chores are not to be confused with his Chores, of which are a separate matter entirely. The urbanite's chores were never chosen of his own volition. The urbanite had the socialite for that. And the culturist. And occasionally the anarchist. The urbanite had other responsibilities than determining his own chores. Besides, he also had his Chores. One can only expect so much.
The socialite did many things, and he was very good at all of them. He tied strings and carved doorways and over the course of many seasons he even burrowed a network of tunnels beneath the city. He also dictated, with love of course. Were it not for the socialite's dictations, the urbanite would have succumb to eldritch whispers long ago. Or risen to shine in the light. Or landed somewhere in between, like exactly where he was so who's to say really. The moral of the socialite is that he made things happen on a regular basis, with varying degrees of value, which is more than that urbanite could say. Not that the urbanite cared.
