Reinhardt
07-27-2011, 08:35 PM
So, Inspired by Lee, I've been doing some didling in my spare time. Wrote this little bit on my way to work one day - don't know if I'll continue but who knows. Written on my blackberry 9000 lol. See if you can figure out how much I hate riding the subway every day?
Partially based on a dream I had where a Mysterious package appeared in my room.
*Edited for readability*
------
I always begin to wonder when exactly it was that my life had begun its current direction; waking up at the same time, eating the same breakfast, watching the same morning television programming, showering at the same time, leaving for work at the same time, driving the same car to the same transit station, riding the same subway car in the same seat with the same people, getting off at the same stop, walking the same block, entering the same office building, sitting at the same desk, doing the same job, having the same lunch, talking about the same topics with the same people, going home at the same time, on the same subway, to the same car, driving the same speed to the same apartment. It feels like a record that has reached its last track and keeps skipping back to the last few notes of a song no one wants to hear again. All my friends do it too, I see it in their eyes, but they at least have a significant other to help pretend the monotony of adult life isn't there.
I feel like for the last ten years this has been all I've done, and those years have passed by in the blink of an eye, so fast that I was shocked one morning, looking in the mirror. I said to myself "who the heck is that old geezer?" Thirty one years old, with a life I suppose some people would be jealous of. A good stable income, a challenging job, and friends that are mostly reliable. For me not to be happy with that seems like a sin against humanity. But that's not it, I am neither happy, nor unhappy. Therein also lies the problem. I find myself clenching my fists and screaming out in annoyance on weekends because I cannot formulate something to do. I want something to do, but I also do not want to do anything. It is during one such dilemma which I hear a very light knock on my door. I usually know better than to answer the door without expecting a visitor; it always ends with me politely telling a charity canvassing for money that it is against my personal code to donate money to those I know will just use it to further their own agenda, rather than actually help those it claims to. On this occasion I will answer the door, if only to break myself from the building angst and annoyance cycle for a moment.
I Look through the peep hole, all I see is the opposite wall. There it is again, three gentle knocks. Maybe its the girl scout cookie drive? Hesitantly, I open the door, there is only a package, a well worn cardboard box with several shipping waybills. This package looks like it has been shipped halfway - or maybe all the way around the world many times. Upon further inspection, I see that there are few places that don't have some sort of shipping waybill attached. The most prominent one being on the top, my name written in neat lettering, my apartment number and address. The waybill was completely in order, except one thing; there was no return address. I hear an apartment door down the hall unlocking from the inside, it was that old woman who always cornered me with religion, quickly grabbing the box I retreat inside the relative safety of my own apartment, quietly locking the door.
I place the box on the dining table directly behind me and look down at it once again. Something bothered me, I had not seen who delivered the box, even though they had been knocking immediately before I opened the door. I think, perhaps they could have escaped to the elevator which is literally three meters from my door, not wanting such a suspicious package immediately refused. How did they even get in? I was never buzzed, but most of the time the charities get in, and the people trying to get me to shampoo my rug, by being let in by random folks, or people they buzz.
I sigh, reflecting upon the moment. Now is not the time to wonder such things, a mysterious package sits before me on the dining room table; there were few things I enjoyed more than opening mysterious boxes, one might say it was the last thing I did enjoy. Carefully, I lift the packing waybill off, which was secured in one of those sticky plastic bags. I don't want to tear the labels below, as they added their own bit of charm. I cringe, the sound of paper ripping. looking down, I stare at something I have seen many times before on the internet, and in the Asian import horror movies I took a liking to last month. It was obviously a seal. a nervous smile spread across my lips, surely they were just hoaxes, I mean.. ghosts don't actually exist. just like gods don't exist, nor do supernatural entities of any sort. Just because I watch all those movies and shows about ghost hunting doesn't mean I actually believe in ghosts, or sealing ceremonies.
I was interested in finding proof, fully documented proof that such things were explainable by science. I shake my head again. This wasn't getting the box open. I dig my keys out of my pocket and carefully cut through the rest of the tape and seals, which seem to bind the edges of the box and the flaps shut. I plunge my hands into the layer upon layer of packing peanuts, and feel around; quickly regretting this as something sharp cuts into my palm. I grasp the object, and withdraw.. it is a large rectangular object.. weighty. It looks like a book, but it is bound in what appears to be a bronze and gold jacket, various occultist looking fetishes and symbols are inlaid in the bronze and there is also a large lock with an old style keyhole which binds the whole thing together.
I set this on the table carefully, releasing it to see that my blood is now liberally smeared across one side. Surely if there were such things as curses and evil spirits, this would definitely be bad. I laugh it off, and carefully sift through the rest of the peanuts. I find a key, and a letter. Looking around my room, I spot some masking tape and wrap up my hand. I don't want to get any blood on the letter, lest it becomes partially illegible. I slip my pinkie finger under the envelope flap, and carefully tear it open. the paper inside is old, and yellowed. It seems very brittle and frail, and cracks a bit as I unfold it. It is the last will of one Ekimric Harids I can only read the notes beside the foreign language, and whomever wrote the notes appears to have been unsure of the correct translation as well.
From what I piece together, it simply says that the grimoire enclosed has been left in the custody of whomever opens the box. I look at the large tome from the corner of my eye, the now dried blood on it's spine. A grimoire, or, a book of magic, or if you want to know what religion thinks of it.. a heretical book, something to be despised, burned, and destroyed. Personally, I hold the belief that no such thing should happen to any book, no matter its contents. That is beside the point; I pick up the key. The key in my hand is too big to fit the hole in the lock on the book. To me, at this moment, I have simply picked up a very interesting conversation piece and no more.
Its getting late now, I can see the sun setting, and the cool breeze of an early autumn night flows through the screen door of my balcony. I decide to leave the book where it lay for now, I need to get to bed early tonight since tomorrow I've been asked to come in at 6am for work.
Partially based on a dream I had where a Mysterious package appeared in my room.
*Edited for readability*
------
I always begin to wonder when exactly it was that my life had begun its current direction; waking up at the same time, eating the same breakfast, watching the same morning television programming, showering at the same time, leaving for work at the same time, driving the same car to the same transit station, riding the same subway car in the same seat with the same people, getting off at the same stop, walking the same block, entering the same office building, sitting at the same desk, doing the same job, having the same lunch, talking about the same topics with the same people, going home at the same time, on the same subway, to the same car, driving the same speed to the same apartment. It feels like a record that has reached its last track and keeps skipping back to the last few notes of a song no one wants to hear again. All my friends do it too, I see it in their eyes, but they at least have a significant other to help pretend the monotony of adult life isn't there.
I feel like for the last ten years this has been all I've done, and those years have passed by in the blink of an eye, so fast that I was shocked one morning, looking in the mirror. I said to myself "who the heck is that old geezer?" Thirty one years old, with a life I suppose some people would be jealous of. A good stable income, a challenging job, and friends that are mostly reliable. For me not to be happy with that seems like a sin against humanity. But that's not it, I am neither happy, nor unhappy. Therein also lies the problem. I find myself clenching my fists and screaming out in annoyance on weekends because I cannot formulate something to do. I want something to do, but I also do not want to do anything. It is during one such dilemma which I hear a very light knock on my door. I usually know better than to answer the door without expecting a visitor; it always ends with me politely telling a charity canvassing for money that it is against my personal code to donate money to those I know will just use it to further their own agenda, rather than actually help those it claims to. On this occasion I will answer the door, if only to break myself from the building angst and annoyance cycle for a moment.
I Look through the peep hole, all I see is the opposite wall. There it is again, three gentle knocks. Maybe its the girl scout cookie drive? Hesitantly, I open the door, there is only a package, a well worn cardboard box with several shipping waybills. This package looks like it has been shipped halfway - or maybe all the way around the world many times. Upon further inspection, I see that there are few places that don't have some sort of shipping waybill attached. The most prominent one being on the top, my name written in neat lettering, my apartment number and address. The waybill was completely in order, except one thing; there was no return address. I hear an apartment door down the hall unlocking from the inside, it was that old woman who always cornered me with religion, quickly grabbing the box I retreat inside the relative safety of my own apartment, quietly locking the door.
I place the box on the dining table directly behind me and look down at it once again. Something bothered me, I had not seen who delivered the box, even though they had been knocking immediately before I opened the door. I think, perhaps they could have escaped to the elevator which is literally three meters from my door, not wanting such a suspicious package immediately refused. How did they even get in? I was never buzzed, but most of the time the charities get in, and the people trying to get me to shampoo my rug, by being let in by random folks, or people they buzz.
I sigh, reflecting upon the moment. Now is not the time to wonder such things, a mysterious package sits before me on the dining room table; there were few things I enjoyed more than opening mysterious boxes, one might say it was the last thing I did enjoy. Carefully, I lift the packing waybill off, which was secured in one of those sticky plastic bags. I don't want to tear the labels below, as they added their own bit of charm. I cringe, the sound of paper ripping. looking down, I stare at something I have seen many times before on the internet, and in the Asian import horror movies I took a liking to last month. It was obviously a seal. a nervous smile spread across my lips, surely they were just hoaxes, I mean.. ghosts don't actually exist. just like gods don't exist, nor do supernatural entities of any sort. Just because I watch all those movies and shows about ghost hunting doesn't mean I actually believe in ghosts, or sealing ceremonies.
I was interested in finding proof, fully documented proof that such things were explainable by science. I shake my head again. This wasn't getting the box open. I dig my keys out of my pocket and carefully cut through the rest of the tape and seals, which seem to bind the edges of the box and the flaps shut. I plunge my hands into the layer upon layer of packing peanuts, and feel around; quickly regretting this as something sharp cuts into my palm. I grasp the object, and withdraw.. it is a large rectangular object.. weighty. It looks like a book, but it is bound in what appears to be a bronze and gold jacket, various occultist looking fetishes and symbols are inlaid in the bronze and there is also a large lock with an old style keyhole which binds the whole thing together.
I set this on the table carefully, releasing it to see that my blood is now liberally smeared across one side. Surely if there were such things as curses and evil spirits, this would definitely be bad. I laugh it off, and carefully sift through the rest of the peanuts. I find a key, and a letter. Looking around my room, I spot some masking tape and wrap up my hand. I don't want to get any blood on the letter, lest it becomes partially illegible. I slip my pinkie finger under the envelope flap, and carefully tear it open. the paper inside is old, and yellowed. It seems very brittle and frail, and cracks a bit as I unfold it. It is the last will of one Ekimric Harids I can only read the notes beside the foreign language, and whomever wrote the notes appears to have been unsure of the correct translation as well.
From what I piece together, it simply says that the grimoire enclosed has been left in the custody of whomever opens the box. I look at the large tome from the corner of my eye, the now dried blood on it's spine. A grimoire, or, a book of magic, or if you want to know what religion thinks of it.. a heretical book, something to be despised, burned, and destroyed. Personally, I hold the belief that no such thing should happen to any book, no matter its contents. That is beside the point; I pick up the key. The key in my hand is too big to fit the hole in the lock on the book. To me, at this moment, I have simply picked up a very interesting conversation piece and no more.
Its getting late now, I can see the sun setting, and the cool breeze of an early autumn night flows through the screen door of my balcony. I decide to leave the book where it lay for now, I need to get to bed early tonight since tomorrow I've been asked to come in at 6am for work.