Nostalgia reeks of regrets; especially when it’s linked to a smell-memory, there can be no defence against it – it goes directly to the core and swims in the maelstrom.
Iskandor refused to live with regrets, knowing that to do so – given his predisposition to melancholia – was to flounder.
So when the nostalgia rose in his chest that morning – a Christmas past filled with the smell of synthetic snow and flashing in his mind images of familial harmony – he was unprepared for its intensity.
His fingers stopped their duties at the keyboard, the cursor flashed indifferent on the screen where the code gazed back at his unfocussed stare.
Reason dictates that a man confident in his abilities is an asset to society. Iskandor felt the dark threads of disappointment, of failure, licking at his gut. He found himself standing; logging out of his workstation and heading for the door under the bemused stare of the floor manager.
The sniffer at the security turnstile blinked red as he passed, he pushed through the glass doors that lead onto the street, encountering a blast of heat that caused his shirt to immediately stick to his back.
He noticed that someone had scrawled “Question Reason” On the concrete wall of the Descartes Science wing.
Iskandor felt a wave of dizziness as anger rose within him – his blood pressure disrupting neural activity to the extent that he needed to stop. He crouched with one hand on the manicured grass to steady himself.
He retched a mucal teardrop in the sunlight, drawing attention from a passing courier whose deadlines would not allow him to stop and offer assistance. Reason was clear on the priorities of personal action.
Iskandor wondered what came next; he imagined the scenario if he chose to head home:
They’d be waiting in the living area when he entered the apartment. They’d be gentle; friendly but firm. They’d be wearing pale blue jumpers. Their nametags would read ‘Jon’ and ‘Mishka’ They’d sit him down in front of the plasmembra.
Reason would not be that gentle.
Iskandor checked the credit on his chip; the numbers glowed dull yellow on the inside of his eyelid: 75k517 – enough to get him out of the city – he headed for the station hoping for a clear run.
It was rumoured that it was possible to live outside of Reason – if you travelled far enough.
Iskandor refused to live with regrets, knowing that to do so – given his predisposition to melancholia – was to flounder.
So when the nostalgia rose in his chest that morning – a Christmas past filled with the smell of synthetic snow and flashing in his mind images of familial harmony – he was unprepared for its intensity.
His fingers stopped their duties at the keyboard, the cursor flashed indifferent on the screen where the code gazed back at his unfocussed stare.
Reason dictates that a man confident in his abilities is an asset to society. Iskandor felt the dark threads of disappointment, of failure, licking at his gut. He found himself standing; logging out of his workstation and heading for the door under the bemused stare of the floor manager.
The sniffer at the security turnstile blinked red as he passed, he pushed through the glass doors that lead onto the street, encountering a blast of heat that caused his shirt to immediately stick to his back.
He noticed that someone had scrawled “Question Reason” On the concrete wall of the Descartes Science wing.
Iskandor felt a wave of dizziness as anger rose within him – his blood pressure disrupting neural activity to the extent that he needed to stop. He crouched with one hand on the manicured grass to steady himself.
He retched a mucal teardrop in the sunlight, drawing attention from a passing courier whose deadlines would not allow him to stop and offer assistance. Reason was clear on the priorities of personal action.
Iskandor wondered what came next; he imagined the scenario if he chose to head home:
They’d be waiting in the living area when he entered the apartment. They’d be gentle; friendly but firm. They’d be wearing pale blue jumpers. Their nametags would read ‘Jon’ and ‘Mishka’ They’d sit him down in front of the plasmembra.
Reason would not be that gentle.
Iskandor checked the credit on his chip; the numbers glowed dull yellow on the inside of his eyelid: 75k517 – enough to get him out of the city – he headed for the station hoping for a clear run.
It was rumoured that it was possible to live outside of Reason – if you travelled far enough.
4 comments:
if you remember how to walk and eat without money and think without words, the digital melds back through civilization's calculus to the analogue of nature where having to live life morphs into getting to. Know the place well.
Glad to see you do.
So...then what happens?...is there more?
I try my best to live outside of Reason as much as possible.
To quote my teacher, Adi Da, (which I'm a bit loath to do, not wanting to be like the JW's, but it's a good quote), "Love, not reason should make your decisions. Decisions based on reason and not love, are karmic..."
Another fantastic piece by the wizard of articulation.
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