Best Laid Plans

Written for the weekly theme contest on IAW. This week's theme was 'Architecture'.

The last stretch of my journey began at the carved archway. An archway that boasted of exquisite craftsmanship, of trained artists, of glistening marble, and of ornate myths I was told to believe in. It was the last opportunity for me to reconsider my decision. It was the last physical landmark that separated my imprisonment from my freedom.

I walked on the cobblestone pathway that took me through that carved archway, through elaborately designed landscapes with grassy hosts waiting at exact intervals. I walked on the muddy trail that led me through towering greenhouses flaunting exotic flora, through pre-planned forests where everything dutifully did as it was told. I walked on gravel roads that guided me as I crossed perfectly quaint bridges, as I parted chlorinated pond water so pure one could drink it. I walked slowly, but steadily towards the beautiful mansion that would soon be my new home.

The mansion itself was, perhaps, the most magnificent sight of them all. Extending beyond anything the naked eye could mark as an edge or boundary, it had forced everything around it to bow down in submission. Every stone exuded a sense of control. Every gilded window invited you to peer in, but if you were brave enough to take up the offer, it seemed as if the window itself was judging you for falling prey to its enticements. These uncountable windows served to highlight the fact that there was only one door. One door that opened into the house, and then closed with a resounding finality, thereby making you the mansion’s next adornment.

I remember the days when I took sunlight, and fresh air for granted. I remember the days when I wished I had a roof over my head, and three meals a day. I remember the day I chose to serve this Lord over the one I truly believed in. I remember the day I chose luxury over freedom- the day I succumbed to the allure of this man-made hell.

Order

Another piece I was unable to submit, due to blasted time zones, and laziness. Oh well, this is why we have blogs. I haven't done any research, or reading, so this character and his habits are completely fictitious. I'm experimenting with sentence fragments, so if you do comment, mention if they work. Thanks.

No. Stop. Halt. We must restart. We must begin from the beginning. We must recommence. First we blink six times, three times for each eye.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Blinking is important. We must blink if we want to do this properly. We must walk to the washroom in nine steps. Not eight, not ten. Nine steps. Note to self, we must sterilize the washroom. In fact, we must do it now. And then we must restart. And then we must begin from the beginning again. And then we must recommence.
The washroom is clean. It is sparkling. And clean. No germs. None whatsoever. We are pleased. We must return to the bedroom quickly. Now, back to what we were doing. Back to what we were doing, in that exact, ritualistic and ordered manner. Exact, ritualistic and ordered manner - exactly 33 characters including the comma. We are pleased yet again. 33 is a good number. 3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27, 30, 33, 36, 39, 42, and 45 are also all good numbers. There are other good numbers, but these are the first 15. 15 is a good number. We would list more, but then it will no longer be 9:15 pm, and we will have to wait till it is 9:18 pm to restart. To begin from the beginning. To recommence.
First we blink six times, three times for each eye.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
We can see everything. We must walk to the washroom in nine steps. We must walk to the clean washroom in nine steps. We must walk to the sterile bathroom in nine steps. We must remove the toothbrush from the shelf. We must remove the toothbrush swiftly. We must take care not to infect the toothbrush. We must then proceed to disinfect the toothbrush. Disinfect. 9 letters. 9 is a good number.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. 3 minutes on the left. 3 minutes on the right. 3 minutes on the molars in the upper jaw. 3 minutes on the molars in the lower jaw. 9:27 pm.
We must replace the toothbrush. The toothbrush must be positioned on the shelf. The toothbrush must be in its place. Everything in its place, just the way it should be. Order is good. Everything in its own place.
Nine steps to the bedroom. Those same nine steps. Left foot forward. Right foot forward. It's like a mesmerizing pattern. Mesmerizing pattern. 18 letters. 18 is a good number. The bed calls to me. No creases. No wrinkles. No crinkles. No wreases? No. We cannot just make up words. We cannot invent them. We must use words that exist. What if everyone started to invent and make up things? No. We cannot have that.
The yellow sheets. No creases. No wrinkles. Perfectly yellow. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly perfect. 3 steps to the bed. It is almost time. 9:29 pm. We must wait a minute. We must not rush things, or else we may have to restart. Everything has to be done in an exact, ritualistic and ordered manner. Yes, we agree. We must be patient. 9:30 pm.
We must climb onto the bed, carefully. No creases. No wrinkles. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly perfect. We must tuck the blanket underneath us. No corners poking out. A perfect cocoon. We must find the light switch now. Ah. There it is. Right where we left it. Right where we told it to be. Right where it is supposed to be. The light switch must come to us. Click. Now darkness. Click. Now light. Click. Now darkness. Click. Now light. One more darkness, and one more light. Then an extended period of darkness. Then sleep. Then tomorrow, and all the opportunities for perfection that tomorrow brings. Extended period of darkness. 24 letters. 24 is a good number. Perfect.
We must time this well. Both eyelids must collapse simultaneously, in synch. Synchronization. 15 letters. Left eye- ready. Right eye- ready. May the collapsing commence. Countdown. 30. 27. 24. 21. 18. 15. 12. 9. 6. 3. Now. Wonderful. Synchronization achieved. We are pleased. We are very pleased. We must now say goodnight to everyone. To the people who visit us everyday. To the people who don't visit us everyday. To the tables that keep us company. To the perfect yellow sheets. We must say goodnight to everyone. Goodnight everyone. We will meet you in the light. In the light of the morning. In the light that shoos away the darkness. Shoos. 5 letters. 5 isn't a good number. In the light that drives away the darkness. Drives. 6 letters. 6 is a good number. Perfect.
Before we forget, we must wish each other goodnight. Where's the civility when we don't wish each other goodnight. We're all we have.
Goodnight, Shadow.
Goodnight, Sir.

Promise

A promise that promises to be mine forever more
A promise that promises to remain unfulfilled...

The secrecy, the silence, the soothing symphony
Embraces of compliance, a humble soliloquy
In the folds of curtains, placating promises will dwell
Acutely uncertain of the assurances you sell
From the depths of the still air, your false odes still resounding
As you whispered that you cared, sincerity astounding
In my pillow's feathers, I search for your consolations
Against my will I'm tethered, I hide from these sensations
Kindling my blind faith in you, I cling to all that you were
Unaware of what you'll do- every promise now a blur.
I falter, I trip, I stumble; finding answers unknown,
Meaning hidden in mumbles. I know nothing's set in stone,
Yet I take comfort in your promises. Though lies they may be,
To me they mean that you bother trying; they mean you're with me.

Silhouetted, She Stands

Based on my interpretation of the Ezra Pound poem I have posted on here before.

In a crowded metro station, during the evening rush hour, the flickering tubelights illuminate all that is wrong with the public transportation system. Waves of passengers make their way around me. Women in suits and scarves, walk by briskly, avoiding my gaze. The men wear hats that leave the exact contours of their faces to the imagination of the beholder. That is all it is now, a crowded metro station.

I stand there, unable to move. Eventually, crowds become individuals, I hear footsteps that stand out from the collective clacking of expensive high heeled footwear. Faces are no longer incomplete sketches; the artist has finally managed to fill in the details and paint in the colours. He's probably all out of black paint. It feels like the world has passed me by in that moment. And yet, I stand there, unable to move.

My eyes wander aimlessly. An efficient and trained voice informs me of my train's arrival. The masses freeze; they're prepared to make a run for it. She is a sudden apparition of gold in the endless sea of black, in those faces, in those footsteps. A golden yellow glow, offset by her auburn hair. As I stare at her, the individuals coalesce again, into one crowd. She stands silhouetted against the dark masses. I blink and she's gone. The metro station is empty now, with no signs of the moments that have passed. My wait is extended. My eyes continue to wander aimlessly, searching for that apparition, for that silhouette.