Ravings of Richard Croft

Midnight Mundanity

     Shadows cast from both doubt and the flickering light of a candelabra were the only souls in which Lord Richard James Croft found himself to be in the company of on this particularly rainy October evening. Well, save for his own—and, truth be told, he wasn't even quite sure if inanimate objects possessed the physical necessities required to harbor such things—or how said 'things' could even begin to be defined. So, he eventually came to the conclusion that it was just himself and his doubt that were present and accounted for in his rather warm and dimly lit Oxford dormitory.

     "Ugh..."  Softened groans of discontentment fell slowly from Richard's mouth, just as quickly as his mouth soon fell into his hands. He always made an effort to still be conscientious of his neighbors and the thinness of the walls that kept them apart. Lithic analysis was just so tedious. The platforms of such teensy flakes could barely be seen with the naked eye—and don't even get him started on trying to feel for the bulbs of percussion, and that's just with the ones containing proximal portions! Oh, or constantly having to remind himself to indeed remind himself that the absence of cortex itself counts as a dorsal surface scar—talk about a pain in the ass. Croft soon realized that he was extremely eager to move on from the lithic debitage, and into artifacts much less strenuous on the eyes. Though he, of course, understood how such a tiresome inspection of the byproducts was, in fact, completely necessary in assigning accurate reduction stages to the site. (However, this didn't really make it any easier.)

     Being a fifth-year archaeology student at the crisp, ripe age of twenty-two wasn't always as romanticize-able as Richard had originally fancied it being. He was often fatigued, in body and mind, just as he was now. Though, he reckoned it was always easier for one to sit at their desk and wax poetic about their frustrations than it was to actually take the time to acknowledge the thing so temporarily damned as being, in fact, eternally beloved.

     Admittedly a bit agitated with himself, Richie swiftly tore a sheet of paper out of his somewhat unkempt notebook, and began to forcibly scrawl a more positive state of mind into existence:

     "Archaeology—its virtues have so strangely taken over my thoughts, that therein I find the need to write of my love with feverish veneration. Never has a subject resonated more within me, as I have contracted the necessity of having its ideals reflect not only in my work, but throughout the entirety of my being. B—"

Ding Dong, Ding Dong.

Ding Dong, Ding Dong.

Ding Dong, Ding Dong.

     The ornate grandfather clock mounted above the entryway made sure to sing solemnly of midnight's superfluous arrival. A pool of ink had begun to form on the page where Richard's hand submitted his pen into dormancy. Clearing his throat, he continued his translation of heart to script:

     "—Being that it is the integrated study of all aspects comprising the prehistoric human condition, I find that I am able to better understand myself, those around me, and our shared history through its lens. It has been said countless times that it was curiosity that killed the cat, but in this case, such inquisitiveness has completely extricated my mind. The very notion of doing my part to further the archaeological record offers me the most liberating catharsis. With each course I take, I continue to find that there is undoubtedly no other way that I should like to spend my time here on Earth."

     Richard stared at the parchment for a long while, being sure to truly take in the fruits of his impassioned outburst. A small smile feathered across his handsome face as those same lips released a sigh of rectification. Rising from his desk, he stumbled over towards the bed—it was late, and he had class in the morning.