The chair he sat in was cold to the touch, the only overwhelming sensation in his little pocket of the ship. His ears hummed, it was always quiet, low hums of machines and the occasional dull moaning of pipes springing to life served as rather well-needed reprieve from the usually hectic work hours spent on noting radio transmissions and rooms too loud for his liking. Working in an environment like that sometimes made his head feel too large for the room. His head was everywhere and nowhere at once, his thoughts loud and chaotic enough for him not to have any at all. He always thought that maybe it was because his brain would cycle through every thought so fast that that was why he felt like that. But he never really knew.
He leaned back, his chair creaking and his back now flush against the cool metal.
Specks of white lights from some distant gas giant occasionally peeked in through the metal blinds outside his windows, bathing him and his quarters with thin strips of light. Making his room look like a prison.
Small things like that are, ultimately, what he needed at the end of the day. Seclusion. Exclusion. Of noise. People. Anything at all.
The slow pace of space was lulling him into an inner feeling of peace. The world felt more slowed down, more patient with itself, that it was hard not to pause, to stop completely, and act similarly. It felt wrong to hurry around with mindless paperwork or chores when everything outside of that thin glass floated so aimlessly, at its own pace.
No rush.
It felt off for him to do anything when it was like this. In the past when he would work, without distraction from a sudden voice shouting near his ear or even several conversations being held, all at different volums... he'd feel uncomfortable, like he'd offset a certain balance that was kept. The light pads of pen to paper felt like a bomb exploding--killing the silence in the room and piercing through the calm like a dagger. Every rustle of clothing, every creak from his chair, every thunk of his wobbly desk jumping from one leg to another felt like another deep crack in the foundation of peace enveloping the room.
It disturbed him.
Doing nothing would usually be something that'd give him anxiety. Something that was wrong, and would ultimately keep him, he thought, from achieving any sort of higher rank or position than what he was currently. If he even stood still for a second amongst others he'd get impatient. He'd tap his foot, fidget and fuss on something like a crinkle in his shirt he didn't notice before, maybe run his hands through his hair several times, before he eventually heard the crackle of the radio, or saw a fresh pile of documents pile on his desk. Then it'd be back to work as usual. But in this room? No. In his quarters work was against the natural balance of the room. Outside was chaos, in here, calm and stillness prevailed. It was a must.
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Note: I initially thought this wasn't done, and thought maybe this could have been a seperate book if I went on with it. But I think, due to my lack of sleep, I decided just to publish this now and be done with it. Though I feel this might be unfinished, I might come back to it later because it doesn't feel quite right. Or finished.
