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Writer's pictureNicholas Adams

Setting Sun

Updated: Mar 19, 2020

His eyes open. The familiar rumble of order pierces his mind, filling him with purpose. He lets the morning discover him as he removes himself from the comfort of his sheets and sets into his careful morning routine. With a familiar effort he traces the well worn path to the bathroom. His feet often recoil at the cold tile, and he flinches at its bitter touch. He forces his head back as the icy water runs down his short brown hair. He follows the perimeter of his home, looming around the edges of the wide room towards the kitchen. A wakeful cold front pierces him as he pries open the fridge door, reaching for a cup of yogurt, eating quickly as he buttons his shirt. The shock of the frigid tile is lessened in his dressed feet as he raises his head, looking into the dull mirror as he brushes his teeth. After staring effortlessly, he sheepishly looks away from the eyes in the mirror and instead focuses on his vigorously precise brush strokes. He stands in the doorway excited for his final task of the morning. He walks briskly over to his jade plant, the only thing which he has given himself right to care for. The plant sits on the sill of a large window, soaking up sun, being fed water twice a day. He carefully examines its delicate deep green leaves, cradling its strong stem in between his fingers. He forces himself away as he begins to feel a strict pull towards the door. He breaches the comfort of his simple home and trudges down the worn path, solitary. He trusts his systematic routine which he hardly recognizes to be his life. Continuing his unremarkable march into his busy day, he pays no mind to the others that follow the same path. He thinks it is his own.


As he sits down at his meticulously impersonal desk, he sets into his allotted work. Ordering, sorting, accounting. He takes great pride in completing his daily tasks. His drive is both admirable and agonizing in its simplicity. He had always been told that as long as he continues his exemplary work, good things will come. So, he is always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He is consistent and accountable, and he feels admired for it. Even when sick he takes every measure to arrive on time with the same stoic persistence. Never allowing himself to falter.


He grows weary.


"Keep going" he often finds himself repeating. His life is deliberately tailored around that which he gives to others, the impeccable service he demands of his staff and the obvious respect they return him. He feels loved for his work and for the similar perfection he expects from his staff.


He cautiously verifies his teams performance. Slowly reaching towards the end of his day's ambition, deliberating his walk home. He locks up. He is the only one with a set of keys. If he isn't there first, he thinks, something must be seriously wrong. As he relieves himself of his duty, the sun is still up. He prefers the winter months when the moon awakens earlier; a wanted excuse to retire to his waiting home. So he is left with a strange guilt. As this cosmological being continues to crest the sky with its intrusive brilliance, he feels forgotten. This stark city is still alive, racing away with a forgotten passenger. Yet he finds reason to be proud of his place in this lonely culmination of steel and concrete. As he retraces his steps back to his home, he recognizes no faces, but sees how he helps them. Where would they be if not for his hours of work? He finds comfort in this, a secret satisfaction. He supports these people behind the veil of institutionalized secrecy. He finds solace in his privacy and is glad that he is able to be kept secret. As the manager of his local grocer, he recognizes his importance. Where would these people be without proper access to the nourishment that he provides? He works for his own betterment, but, also, he thinks, for the betterment of his community. An unknown philanthropist. He constantly finds himself in this state of self-reassurance. He dips once again into this chalice with wavering hands as his fingers begin to test the dregs.


After finally reaching his apartment he sits facing the window which reaches out towards the horizon; a perfect painting. It is decorative item in which he would never indulge, although he is thankful for this view. From this careful perch he can monitor the setting of the sun. He has viewed many sunsets from his watchful post, but never with an eye for beauty. He waits until the sky becomes a playground for the moon, and the harsh lustre of the sun is replaced with the moon's unassuming phosphorescence. In the city, the tall ever-present buildings and vibrant streetlights manage to blot out most planets and stars, as if hired hands to the relentless sun. All is gone but Earth's satellite. He feels solace in the moon's presence, yet never basks in it as it never basks in him. They share a penchant for loneliness. As he sees the moon come into being, he leaves it. Comforted by its distant companionship and shared loneliness.


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