Puddles from the torrential rains all through the night decorate the cul-de-sac, blemishing what was only 2 days ago the beautiful enclosure of houses. This architectural showpiece of aesthetic value, marred by the angry pelting from last night, now bears the frightening resemblance of a crumpet feet.
From the door of one of the houses comes out a bespectacled mid-thirties man who has a walking gait that is unconventional, brought on by a past injury in his right leg. He hobbles with a bucket of rainwater carried out of the house. The source of the water could be from the leak in his living room. This he reported to the gated community’s housecleaning services a week ago. He throws away the dirty rainwater, looks at the abomination before his eyes, the ruined cul-de-sac, and with a defeated shrug of his shoulders, walks back into his home.
“Looks like everything is going through a baptism of sorts.”
One could only imagine what Buddy had been through from how he moved this morning.
Every action from the moment he stepped into the foyer was performed as if zombified.
From realigning the plastic receptacle for the leak into the room to retreating to the washroom of his apartment – his refuge for conceiving plans without distraction – you could instantly sniff the preoccupation consuming the entirety of his focus.
Buddy spent approximately 480 minutes staring into nothing. The flickering light bulb in the washroom was absolutely useless in breaking the extreme focus he had obtained. It has been said that one never knows what he is capable of until he is faced with situations of immeasurable adversity, a life-or-death moment in time. He considered what he had been chewing over just a life-changing experience.
At least for Buddy, in all of this, there was a fortuitously epiphanous moment heralded by what had transpired. He could finally put to bed the nagging concern of his inability to focus for long hours. Talk about a silver lining, eh!? It was an apparent matter of finding the right source of motivation all this while.
In his replay of events past, the clear way to resolve the inward storm shows up in a form he is all too familiar with… writing down his thoughts.
As a kid, whenever Old John grounded him for whatever insubordination, he admonished him to also write how he felt no matter what.
By doing this, he would eventually discover how his grandad tremendously helped him.
He found that it was a good outlet for his emotions and even allowed him to be logically calculative in his response to situations outside the realm of emotional regulation.
“Thank you, Grandpa. You still coming through, Pops, even after all these years, huh?”
With renewed hope on how to navigate what had been eating him up, he trudged out from the claustrophobic space that is his washroom into the makeshift workspace at home. A stack of files lay spread out on virtually sixty per cent of the desk. The rest of the desk held an electric lamp with a small all-purpose compartment for storing anything ranging from a pen to miniature keepsakes.
He gave a cursory glance at the figurine the little boy on the bus willed him to take on his commute back home even against the obvious disapproval of his mom.
“Maybe he could see the sadness in my eyes. Kids are really…” He trailed off in his head, smiling at the little one and ruffling his hair as an expression of his gratitude for the gift.
Finally pulling back the chair, Buddy took a tired seat. He moved around some files to make room and picked up his journal to deal with the situation.
“Let us wade through it like we are used to. Here goes nothing…”
Grey
Curator of moments, collector of whispers