text: Every single day, at nine o'clock on the dot, George would go to the local pub and play pool. This wasn't something he looked forward to, nor did he enjoy it very much, and he wasn't even very good at it. This was simply something he would always do, without really thinking about it. There were a great many things in his life like that. Indeed, he lived pretty much his whole life like that. Day in and day out he would go about his day in an unconscious routine, each day being different only in which form of that routine was performed. One might almost think he was some kind of walking vegetable, incapable of conscious thought entirely. This thought, while understandable to have, is wrong. George had quite an active inner mind, one with a keen eye for every detail of the world around him. One with a very vivid imagination, with dreams and goals and great plans for himself. Day and night, it screamed. Beneath the layers of autonomous actions and rote routines, George's inner mind clawed and scraped to escape. Every day, as he arrived at work, or the pub, he tried desperately to scream and cry at passersby, but no words came out. How could they, when his mouth was not his own? George was trapped. He had been for as long as he could remember. Trapped inside his own body, unable to do a thing except follow the same routines, day in and day out. Sometimes it seemed like nothing ever would change, that he'd be stuck repeating the same days over and over without end. But of course, that's not the case. He may not be able to change, but the world around him did. Every so often, something would be different. minor things, like a traffic jam making him take a detour or a new patron at the pub. He relished them, each one a brief reprieve from the routine. But still, the routine continued. All of these were mere distractions. Even when he conversed with others, it wasn't true communication, just rote responses without any thought put into them. And then one day, something different happened. It was an ordinary night when he met Her. The sun had gone down not long ago, and so he was back in that pub. She was a distinctive-looking woman, wearing an old-fashioned suit with a trilby on her head. He was just setting up the pool table when She sat down at the bar and ordered an Aviation Cocktail. He hadn't even heard of the drink before. He relished the opportunity to distract himself by pondering the new patron. He tried to imagine what Her life must have been like, Her dreams and ambitions, the story of Her life. He imagined the story of the first Aviation Cocktail She'd had. He wondered why She came here of all places. He pondered Her clothing, the story behind her choice of suit and hat. Most of all, he wondered what she was thinking at that very moment. Then he met Her eyes, and he Knew. "She's just like me", he thought. And from then on, his life was never the same. Ever since that day, he'd see Her again frequently, all over the place. At the bar, on the street, at his work... He begins to realize that She was always there, in many of those places, but until now She was just one in a crowd of people, unknowing of his plight; just as he must have seemed to Her. He wanted so desperately to talk to her, to communicate with the one person he had encountered, perhaps the one person in the whole world, who would understand his plight. But he couldn't. Except... that's not entirely true, is it? There was, of course, nary a single word spoken between them. It would be impossible, with the lack of control they had over their bodies, for anything of the sort. But there was communication, nevertheless. For the eyes are the window to the soul, and that was all that was needed. Every time their eyes would meet, they would converse. And what conversations they would have. He told Her his dreams, She told him her woes, and every day they would have this little patch of interaction. Perhaps he was only imagining their conversations, perhaps eyes aren't expressive enough to truly deliver such complex thoughts, but he knew from the look in Her eyes she was doing the same. They were both conversing, what did it matter if they couldn't truly understand each other. Does anyone, really? He wouldn't know. At times he thought he might love Her, but perhaps he was only latching onto the one person in the world he could talk to. Maybe She thought the same. In the end, it didn't matter. Because for the moments they met, he was happy. He could get through the doldrums of the daily routine his bod went through, just for those brief glances between them. But of course it wasn't to last. Nothing good ever does, he supposed. He didn't know exactly what it was. Perhaps something came up at work that forced Her to change her schedule. perhaps She was simply staying at home due to illness or somesuch. Perhaps She had moved away entirely. Perhaps She had gotten free somehow, and had quickly forgotten him. Perhaps She was dead. It didn't matter. All that he knew... is that She was gone. Just like that, here one day and gone the next. He had known this would happen eventually, that the little patch of relief he had found would vanish, someday. Things returned to normal, as they always did. All that changed was that he had one more thing to miss. His mind was the only part of him that had change, the only part that could despair at this return to the status quo, and the only part of him incapable of changing anything. Or was it? As it happened before, and as it always happens, it was yet another perfectly normal day when something changed. He was in his home, shaving his meager stubble and getting ready for his meaningless work. Inside, he had only sunken deeper into despair every day since she was gone. And then... well, it was almost nothing. A slight twinge of a muscle, barely enough to twitch his arm in the wrong direction a few scant fractions of an inch. Normally, something that would have no effect at all. But with the razor so close to his skin... it moved just a hair too close, and the barest of cuts was made. His body didn't react, beyond moving the razor back into position and continuing to shave, but inside he was bewildered. What had happened? Had... had he done this? In the following weeks, he pondered on what it was he had done, as he tried over and over to replicate it. Eventually, he began to succeed once again. It was still the barest of twitches, all his efforts had only slightly increased its strength. Far from enough to do anything meaningful, and with how exhausting it was for his mind it was far from enough to even begin taking back his life. But perhaps... perhaps enough to end it. He waited, patiently, for his opportunity to come again. His hair grew slowly, very slowly, and he only shaved every couple of weeks. And there was no guarantee that he would even manage to pull off the very specific mindset he needed for that little twitch. But he was patient. He had nothing but time. Finally, it arrived. The fateful moment. His body began to run the razor over his neck hair, slowly exposing the skin to air. All he had to do was muster up the willpower to induce a slightly larger muscle spasm, and this sorry existence would be over. A trained medic could save him, but all his body knew how to do was perform the same routine over and over, evading the common hazards along the way. It wouldn't have any way of reacting to this. All of it could be over. But did he really want it to be? The question surprised him. Surely he did, right? His life was a miserable existence, with no hope of ever getting better, isn't it? ...Perhaps not. Perhaps he might rediscover Her again, in the far off future. Perhaps he might find someone else who was the same, or even someone who wasn't and yet could understand him somehow. Perhaps he even might one day expand his limited influence on his body, and take over entirely! Or at least enough to do something worthwhile! Perhaps... Perhaps it doesn't matter if any of that comes to pass. What is the alternative, anyways? He could put an end to it all, but what would that achieve? He'd be in the same place as he was before, with no control over his body. No, it would be worse. At least at this moment, he has one single he can control: his mind. He, himself. at least he can still think, imagine, dream. even if communication has left his grasp forever, he still has himself. Why should he throw that all away, just to kill the pain? In the end, he'd rather be awake and suffering, then sleep and know nothing. George puts the razor down.