hour-gas
What can I say that has not already been said. In the entire history of time, man has been conveying stories about his experiences, as drawings, as symbols, as words. Even animals leave behind trails that tell others following a certain story. One dog can smell the gender, traits, we suppose many other things in the urine of another. What can I say that has not already been said?
The sands of time swirl and dance, the hourglass becoming heavier at the bottom, and lighter in the top half. Yet time continues to go on. It does not end. It does not end as we see it. The hourglass is lying on its side. Internal wind might blow the sand from one half to another, but otherwise, the time remains constant. Stuck on one side. Stuck in limbo. Inertia.
The fan blew hot air down. Spinning tirelessly. Endlessly. Happily. The lights were dim. The floor was cold, and felt a little wet. He could almost feel the wiping down of the marble that he imagined must have been done last night, underneath his bare feet. In front of him, fire burned merrily. Gas hissing happily. Water boiling painfully. The concoction inside was silent, even as it turned from red and fleshy to brown and solid. He got up with a heavy sigh and stumbled over to the stove. He turned down the gas just a little. The blue flames lost half their height. He went and sat back on the straw thatched stool. The fan whirred. Again, he got up and turned the flame to high. The flames doubled in height. Again, he walked back to his stool, wearily. It had been a long day. It would be a long day. It had been a long life. It would be longer still. The water hissed as it noticed the change in temperature.
He stumbled outside. Past the wooden door. Past the second, steel rimmed, crisscrossed door, the one that kept flies out. It was nice. He basked in the cool morning wind. The grass was dewy. It glowed green and glimmered under the light of the young sun. Birds chirped an uneven melody. There were the small ones. There, the crows. There, the parrots. The air smelled of honeysuckle, and an entire night spent in healing the earth before day would bring about its ruin. It tasted fresh and cool. It would be stale by noon.
He walked back inside, and slumped backwards onto his stool. It did not buckle under his weight. His head ached. He smiled. The fire was bright and cheery in the dim smaller kitchen. He wondered why they had made the stoves in the larger two redundant. He was sure they hadn’t been built for decoration purposes. But that’s what they were now. Decorations. Adornments. Nothing more. Probably much less. Just black, glistening, steel shapes disturbing the beauty of the smooth countertops. That’s all they were. He got up and stumbled slowly to the boiling pot. He hesitated for a second, and then with a smile, stuck his head into it.