One Evening.
On a very fine midmorning Leanard Joshua Hillcolm had woken up from his four hour nap as per any usual morning at eleven hours, fourteen minutes and three and a half seconds to the fifteenth minute of the twelfifth hour in the fine day ahead.
Joshua only had ever had a four hour nap through his eleven years of working at the Postscrture Insurance company. He had never really achieved any promotions as such, yet he kept up his hopes. He was a mid-height, just as the sun on the way to a peak of life, at the age of thirty two. His short cut brown hair sat in its usual place on the cupboard. Joshua was sadly bold from the age of nineteen.
Today was just any other day when Joshua had forgotten the wig that still lay on the wooden old cupboard given to him as a birthday present by his long dead mother.
Just as any other day, Joshua Leanard went out of his miniature appartment to the streets of a rather small town on the edge of a somewhat small country. We need not worry about the specifics of the date when this all happeed, but happen it did.
As the sun was making its way up to the midpoint of the day, it is exactly at that moment when Leanard stepped out, out onto the paved streets, onto the busy, grouchy and disgrunted desidents of the business-life.
Shiny and wet, just like the solemn foreheads of a common worker, the pavement steamed and smelt of rock, which of course no man would smell, for every one was far too busy rushing around in groups of four. Joshua was too, bound by this system, grinding and pushing the wheel, the wheel which pushed him onwards. With each step the wheel ground up more, and with more came more. The world was smooth polished and carefully planned by the people who were not even in charge of the entire system, which did not bother the people in charge whatsoever anyway. It just meant the vacation hours were longer.
Joshua of course was one of the people... not in charge that is. He was rather pleased with himself for not being something which is just so difficult to achieve and payed just slightly less. The hours were good, but being dead just didn't seem appealing at the time ~ Fifteen minutes past three post meridiam. Leanard was rather late for his well deserved break from work which he had the pleasure of spending at the cafeteria, four floors down of his office which was only four floors up, in the forty-nine floored building. The cafeteria was indeed the lowest and most miserable place in the building. To which, and it comes as no surprise, nobody except for Joshua, Leanard and a few others went to. The cafeteria as the name might suggest did not sell food and was merely a secret name for a gambling club in the basement to which of course nobody went to anyway, as it was at a later date (no point being specific) changed to a cafeteria in a basement, which still received no attention. At an even later date it became closed off to the public, becoming one of the most notorious drug labs in the history of the small town.
On his way to the cafeteria Leanard had a sudden spontaneous thought (it may be a good idea to note the date of this incident which will soon trigger a cataclysmic chain of extraordinary unordinary with a hint of ordinary and sublimely twisted horrow events). The thought (even if we had forgotten to note down the time of which it happened) was discarded. Just as any other normal thoughts about eating jelly beans with a scalpel from the bosses younger sister's belly. That may not have been the thought which struck the conclusions of the mindstrings dangling from the everlasting minty breath of the brain, but it was the thought to have rebelled against all others of its kind, to have risen from the decaying ashes within the dull subconscience which ever dribbled nonsense whilst sucking up and governing fallen thoughts of the regular pinstriped mind.
Joshua leaned over the railing, a ten piece coin spun freely just underneath him.
The thought was making its way back, along the cavities of its fallen comrades, it wore a grey suit, with a sickly green tie, blue shoes and an orange shirt to match. Striding, it knew it belonged in the brain. It had defeated the othermind, the army of its degradational thoughts, It knew that it will start a revolution.
Toilet. I need to go to the toilet.
Thought Leanard.
Not even ten hours passed before Leanard was back in his small apartment chizling at corn crackers with a small twisted breadknife in shape of an 'L'. To any normal person, building structures out of corn chips and butter at your home, is not a daily pass-time. It wasn't for Leanard either, but when one has explosive diarrhea seven hours straight it may be suspected at a great length of sixteen feet of human perception that Joshua had felt the need to satisfy the remainder of his dullened senses with the construction of so far so well unheard of, 'tower of nacho crackers'.
It was not only untill the next day, after another ten hours not even passing, he was able to get the four hours of sleep which his body did not even dare to ask for; in which case it would have been beaten half to death with caffeine and other food safe and busisness smart products.
Another day which in this case, was the day where the wig is not forgotten. Joshua left the house in the same ordinary fashion which was of course orchestrated by the subconscious mind. Which as dull as it may have been, kept a good record of days and when the wig should be forgotten and when not.
The Sub-minds best symphony was of the "I am really a crossdresser when Im asleep" What made it a hit single was the fact that Leanard had a sleepwalking problem. But this day (not the day before or the few days before that) it was on this day when the thought had truly outdone itself. When the thought (not only just a call for a severe action of the bowels) had gained its master plan.
As Leanard was walking up the street, down to work, something caught his unprecise, attention:
A news paper, with a headline. It may not seem any strange to you dear reader, but in this small town, there were no headlines. Really, there were no newspapers either. Every now and then some rich man would order one in and pretend to read it. Because everyone knows there's no news unless you find out about them. And who would want the stress and worry about the sandcastle built by a ninety year old monk in the far lands being destroyed by the local populace.
The news paper was not of any unordinance.
It wasnt really a newspaper, rather an old magazine with the headline:
"What would you do if you were young again?"
And right then at that moment the thought had its hour, pushing through all other thoughts, running yp in its inglorious suit to the front of the brain yelling at the top of its lungs: Dont Pick It up!
But. Of course as the society of thought works, whatever the thought says is instantly reversed and outspoken, hence by the time it came to the front of the brain it sounded like this:
You must pick that up and read it thoroughly
Which then turned into itself and again told this: Do It.
Leanard walked up to the strange piece of published paper and read it. "Dear reader we apologize to infrom you that your contract with reality has expired, please contact your latest Psycho-The-Rapist.
Joshua did not really understand what the magazine actually offered but was pleased to know that it wasn't anything bad.
Must be another one of those new age neo-paganistic christian magazines he thought. (Anybody would have liked to think they sound smart by putting a 'neo' in front of something)
The time of this next incident is just as important as the last, seeing that the last few incidents were forgotten, the times were just as important.
By Johnathans words, the words of Leanard were quite sane to somebody who only exists in the figment of their own imagination, whilst wearing a semi purple suit and waiting for a yellow car labelled 'Taxi'
Joshua began some serious work with the future psycho therapist (at this point which he had not met yet) it is rather arguable that he will ever meet.
Johnathan was a good mannered man, skinny build, with a semi floor length hair which ended up in braided dreadlocks, he wore a yellow checkered shirt, with a white trim and a brown jacket with a missing tail. It may not be surprising to him that the grey suit was left behind and the clothes completely changed, but what mattered was the fact that he was ready to face the man who made and broke him. Condemned him to a life with morons, condemned to living amongst the dead. Forgotten. But no more.
Leanard scrapped that thought, and the entire conversation. He just thought it was going a little too far.
He got into a taxi and made his way home whilst listening to foreign music.
