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 #flowersandcigs

Wake up. Brush teeth. Shower. Coffee. Sit in front of the screen and —

work.

His routine was repetitive and tedious.

Rym liked it.

Little diodes stained the glass pane temporarily with colors, imparting shapes and forms; and Rym could see stories graved onto the screen, ones he wasn't the author of. It was almost magical how the things he created could converse in languages he didn't know and convey messages he didn't compose. It looked almost like a spell when the squares he placed came together as a line and the lines group up into a picture.

The shapes were dancing.

His eyes were still dry, following invisible trails left by digital scratches inside the display. Out of the infinite places, Rym dotted down on a point to start a path and on another to end it. He gave it an angle; pushed it up then curved it down, snaked it around then straightened it out. The black line looked perfect, until Rym fed it yellow and polluted it with red. The line emitted a foreign wavelength, and it looked like rust.

Rym thought his work was rather nice.

Golden light shaded his room in a sweet melody of the afternoon. Rym reached out to grab his coffee and found that the sun had been gently melting the ice cubes in it. The drink tasted like water and cream. Not too appealing, but he liked it a bit desaturated.

Jumble of pixels on the monitor looked up and stared at him. Quiet and calm. They looked fine there. Rym could add a line, could remove a circle; he could make it better.

He thought about doing just that, and took a cigarette out from the box. It wasn't 5 PM yet, but a smoke sounded good and the balcony felt fitting.

And with a slide of the door and a step of his own, Rym notices.

There is a tiny sprout in the middle of his ashtray where he planted a cigarette butt last evening. So insignificant in size he could have missed it if not for the green glowing so brightly in this grayness he lives in.

Rym realizes just then that he has created something.

Without intent, without meaning.

The plant most likely doesn't contribute to anything, just a tiny little leaf. It doesn't help with the dusty air, doesn't make the view better, doesn't give him oxygen. He can't even see the thing from inside his room. The city is still pretty boring and arid. The world hasn't changed. It all remains the same in the grand scheme of things. But, Rym thinks as he moves the pot away from direct sunlight,

one day it might.

illustration - tan2w

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