So I got bored at work...
Living the Cliché
On the second day that he wandered the beach he tried to think of all the ways in which he was unoriginal. Crusoe had already been here, walking these tracks long before, him and Friday. Roland too had memorably trudged his mark alongside the sea, leaving a few pieces of himself behind. More recently, Edgar had come to the beach already less than whole, leaving much the same way, but at peace with himself. In brutally basic terms, there was nothing new about walking along the shore.
He could have been the last man on earth. Of course, then he might have been copying Robert Neville or any number of other such post-apocalyptic protagonists. But this wasn't the end days; this was just entire mortal silence. The sand between his toes, the seagulls up above, the waves rushing to meet him on his right... these were the only noises he could hear. These soothed the mind, encouraged relaxation and meditation. So different to the mindless cacophony of civilisation only minutes away.
When he had walked his fill, he stopped for awhile near the abandoned ruins of a ransacked sandcastle. He sat down alongside the ramparts, staring down on it like some vast inscrutable sentinel. No-one could be found strolling in the courtyard, manning the portcullis or the moat. Then again they could have been cowering in some sandy storeroom. He studied the castle and realised that he was observing as we all are observed, or like to think we are, by an intelligence that moves us like pawns on a chessboard but only ever for fair means, and never foul. He'd never believed in God and so was left to momentarily ponder on whether or not he existed.
But the tiny granules underneath his feet, the foam creeping towards the spot where he lay (and soon enough that moat would be sorely tested, oh yes indeed), even the seagulls of indifference all proved that he was and that was enough. Under his breath he hummed a few lines of a tune (60s west coast pop, what else?) as if to prove himself superior to his surroundings. I am human. Capable of higher thought, of ingenuity, of creativity, of five-part harmonies. Judge or ignore me all you wish, seagulls - not a one of you has ever reached so high.
But lunch hours only stretch so far before snapping like wet chewing gum. Time only drags on indefinitely when it is not required to last, even actively discouraged. He stood again, sand falling from his arms and behind, knees popping and muscles complaining, and took one last look at the horizon out to sea. It was only his second day in the new job and a full fifteen minutes walk back to the office. Time to go.
On the second day that he wandered the beach he tried to think of all the ways in which he was unoriginal. Crusoe had already been here, walking these tracks long before, him and Friday. Roland too had memorably trudged his mark alongside the sea, leaving a few pieces of himself behind. More recently, Edgar had come to the beach already less than whole, leaving much the same way, but at peace with himself. In brutally basic terms, there was nothing new about walking along the shore.
He could have been the last man on earth. Of course, then he might have been copying Robert Neville or any number of other such post-apocalyptic protagonists. But this wasn't the end days; this was just entire mortal silence. The sand between his toes, the seagulls up above, the waves rushing to meet him on his right... these were the only noises he could hear. These soothed the mind, encouraged relaxation and meditation. So different to the mindless cacophony of civilisation only minutes away.
When he had walked his fill, he stopped for awhile near the abandoned ruins of a ransacked sandcastle. He sat down alongside the ramparts, staring down on it like some vast inscrutable sentinel. No-one could be found strolling in the courtyard, manning the portcullis or the moat. Then again they could have been cowering in some sandy storeroom. He studied the castle and realised that he was observing as we all are observed, or like to think we are, by an intelligence that moves us like pawns on a chessboard but only ever for fair means, and never foul. He'd never believed in God and so was left to momentarily ponder on whether or not he existed.
But the tiny granules underneath his feet, the foam creeping towards the spot where he lay (and soon enough that moat would be sorely tested, oh yes indeed), even the seagulls of indifference all proved that he was and that was enough. Under his breath he hummed a few lines of a tune (60s west coast pop, what else?) as if to prove himself superior to his surroundings. I am human. Capable of higher thought, of ingenuity, of creativity, of five-part harmonies. Judge or ignore me all you wish, seagulls - not a one of you has ever reached so high.
But lunch hours only stretch so far before snapping like wet chewing gum. Time only drags on indefinitely when it is not required to last, even actively discouraged. He stood again, sand falling from his arms and behind, knees popping and muscles complaining, and took one last look at the horizon out to sea. It was only his second day in the new job and a full fifteen minutes walk back to the office. Time to go.