The Collection

Time

The room is pitch dark. Removing the thin sheets from my back, I am met with a stifling cold that I've grown used to overtime. I sit up from my cot, the frame desperately trying to stay upright. I grab the steel handle from where I placed it on the floor the night before, the ice-cold steel biting my hand. Flicking the lever, I am met with the sharp blade; a friend. I head toward the stone wall just beside the bookshelf - one of the bookshelves - and begin carving the line. My life. Time itself. Hearing the familiar shift and stretch of the pulleys, I quickly rush to the matchbox in the cupboard. Pulling out today's detonator, I strike it and move to light the lamps on this floor just before I miss it. I never do. I light the last one just in time. Holding it to my head, I look over the railing. The dull, flickering light is one I've grown used to, and while it doesn't provide much light, it provides an atmospheric mesmerization to this part of my life which I truly admire. As the great unit shifts, pulleys clinking and screeching, the granules trapped have no choice but to move as well; their home turning, adapting. The defined angles, once pointing skyward, are now addressing the horizon. Even as the process continues its way around. I am trapped by its beauty; strong, elegant, peaceful. It is making its way to its resting place, granules resting now, some racing down through the minuscule hole at its center. A place only they could go. I release a breath I did not know I was holding. Somehow, with each passing line on the stone wall, this unit, this life, grows more and more exhilerating. As if I live and breathe for this exact moment each time.

I place the lantern by the sink, the soft fall of granule,s a reassurance I will never not be grateful for. Twisting the cold knob, I am greeted by the sound of rushing water and, as I cup my hands and place them under the fall, a chill runs down my spine. Slowly, like an insect, it goes from the top of my neck, down to the bottom of my behind. Creeping. Reminding. The Cold will always be here. A constant, just like the granules. Splashing my arms and legs, I grab my fresh change of clothes from where they sit in front of the door. One place I have not gone. These walls, the four of them, I have seen. I have lived and breathed these very walls, but beyond that door I do not know. For it is not my place to know, because here is where I belong. Once I am dressed, I head downstairs, grabbing my notebook off the table as I walk the last flight. Opening it up, I flip to last night's account; the last note telling me to start a new journal and, positively, this is the last page of the book. Sighing, I look to the unit of granules, the bottom almost completely covered, and ask why I must be so lazy when the unit comes to an end and the lanterns are blown out. Walking to the shelf under the staircase, I choose a notebook and begin with my account of the day. Before forgetting, I open the chest just next to the shelf and throw the old journal away, landing with a thud as a grey puff is aroused upon impact. The old books greet this one warmly as I shut the chest and head for my desk. I strike another match and light the remaining lanterns on this floor. Up the three stairs to my workspace, I am met with a most out of sorts mess; books left open; papers carelessly loose, some having fallen onto my hair and floor; globe completely off its axis, toppled over. I sigh and again look to the unit asking why I so carelessly leave things. I begin cleaning my mess and, once I'm finished, get to work.

After scrawling away in my notebook, I look to the granules and find that they have made their way halfway from the bottom. Standing up, I extend my arms upwards and hear the cracks of my bones. I make my way up the staircase and to the door, noticing the tray of delectables where my fresh clothes once sat. Taking a seat on my cot, I take the tray with me and begin feasting. Stomach full, I look back to the unit and quickly get back to work; the granules now having reached closer to the tiny hole in its center. Filling pages and pages in the notebooks, I begin the recount of the day, hearing the beginning of the stretching of the pulleys. I can't miss it. I never do. I write a final note in the notebook to get a new one; rigorous in today's work, I got ahead of myself and filled up this one's pages. I look to my desk and notice the careless mess spread across it, telling the unit I'll clean it tomorrow. After blowing out this floor's lanterns, I walk up the first flight of stairs, place the journal on the corner table, and walk the second flight in time to see the unit pointing from horizon to sky. I close the blade and place it beside my cot where I always do and blow out all but the last lantern, which I bring to my cot. Pulling the sheets over my back, I blow out the final lantern. The room is pitch dark.

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This was written on March 28, 2022.

This one's really weird and long and kinda boring.

The image I included at the top is my inspiration. I was *again* in the school library and I came across this image on Pinterest and I was like, "Cool. I wonder who would live there?" And that's how this was born.

I imagine this person as kind of an experiment. Like this person was put in here and is being studied on how they live and what they do and such. That's why they get their change of clothes and food from the mysterious door. And I only now realize that I wrote them receiving only one meal but oh well.

Anyways, like I said, this one is really weird and long and I wouldn't blame anyone for skipping over it lol.

Have a nice day!

Madi