The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

wakey wakey metaphysics and sadness

Lucien would eventually arrive in the apartment after a pleasant ride on the sailboat of sleep, and he would be questioning why I've been watching him like a stalker, questioning why he slept with this stranger, questioning if he really should live this widely, and I don't want for him to relinquish any of that spontaneity, so I tug my vision away from him and into the door left wholly ajar from when Lucien volleyed through it at the noise I formed while dodging the hell that is his bathroom floor, and sluggishly I slide my legs across the sheets towards the hardwood panels and the chill that they have hosted since the morning delivered its sensual flavors expressly to them. Endeavoring to produce as little sound as is possible, my toes graze the floor, gradually pooled with the rest of my body, prepared to exit the room and leave Lucien to his rest -- which he severely needs after the toll that last night took on him.

This decision allots me time to explore the remainder of the apartment, as I was either fixed on the confusion of my first impression or being whisked away into activities that I couldn't deny due to Lucien's inconsolable avidity for them, but now that the morning draft has swept through the area and obliterated the residents' whims to remain here, I am alone to map the space without interruptions from the erratic writer whose field of expertise is utterly unknown to me, just as this apartment is, but I'm praying that by the time I've finished charting this house, only one of those will be a secret to me, but if I discover both, then that's a welcomed bonus, too. There's enough manuscripts lying around for that goal to be feasible.

Lucien has made no effort to clean his house, even in the time where I was endeavoring to do something as elementary as brush my fucking teeth stained dirty from Lucien's terrible spaghetti rings, but I suppose that provides me with more items to investigate, though these items probably won't ever move locations, as Lucien is a man who claims that tidying up an area is another example of how humans are artificial in order to impress other humans as if their opinion of something as transparent as the state of an apartment is critical, as if it will motivate Lucien to alter it because he actually gives a single shit about what other people think.

I'm now feeling inundated by the plethora of items strewn about the apartment like the fragmented remains of dirt after a bullet smites the ground in which it sat, a warzone devastated by its own purpose, and I'm not sure how to begin to sort through it all. I am cognizant that Lucien has collected these objects throughout his life and has never bothered to separate them into the trash or to charity or to a protected box for the special ones, but he obviously would refuse the idea of my help with finally doing so, and one day he will find himself locked inside of a room with a pile of clutter restricting any path outside, so even if I'm ruining his pretentious doctrine about leaving things undisturbed, I will clear things out so that he will never ruin himself with a monster of trash knocking at his door with the key in its greasy fingers.

There's so much to do, which is already difficult enough, but I also have to organize his possessions subtly so that he doesn't confront me about why I have wrecked the natural order of things, embarking on a tangent of how every grain of sand is on the beach through the cycle of life and is sometimes carried in the shoes of visitors to other destinations, and I'm not ready for that spiel when it's so early in the morning and I haven't doused myself in bitter coffee and the clarity of thought.

Perhaps arranging the smaller items into piles in hidden places is a productive way to go, so that's what I do, careful to hush my work so that Lucien won't catch me rattling the cycle of life in a place as paltry as his apartment that never affects that cycle because Lucien rarely ventures outside except for work at the library. My goal is swimming along adeptly, and it's like a routine now — locate a curio, locate a pile, and place the curio in that pile. Nothing can stop me in this rhythm, and it's not so arduous anymore, except for when I'm halted by the only one with the power to do so.