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Snippet #915

located in Life, a part of Almost an Allegory, one of the many universes on RPG.

Life

The container of experiences that a living creature goes through, whether asleep or awake.

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The keys clatter onto the counter. The sound makes me feel old. I am not sure if I am fond of the feeling or not. For some people, it is the sound of a weary, set life, of idealistic dreams faded, of compromises and broken promises and unfulfilled goals. But to me, it also sounds like security. The clatter of keys sound like security to me—it means, as I daydream, that I am successful enough from the high-salary hypothetical job I am coming home from, that I am unlocking the door to a hypothetical high-class apartment, one big enough to have a hypothetical marble counter on which to toss my keys.

But I have no hypothetical dream job, no hypothetical high class apartment to go home to, and the hypothetical marble counter is just made out of some kind of plastic. I put down my bag and shuck off my shoes and cross to small area known as the kitchen.

Then again, I think, it's a bit alarming how quickly and easily we get used to these things. It had been almost a year since I had graduated. To think the summer before my freshman year I had been frittering away my last days of summer before my first year of college. What could I have been possibly thinking about then, I wonder to myself. I amuses me that I am examining my younger self as if it were a curious sociological anomaly. As if everyone had responsibilities by that point of their lives.

I turn on the stove and boil some water to make macaroni and cheese. The Easy Mac kind. As I wait for the noodles to cook, I check my email. There is mostly spam, a few correspondences with family and friends back home. I look through them and wish that my life could be more efficient. I wish I could be doing something even as I glance through and reply to those emails whose contents are made trite simply by the instantaneousness of their digital transit.

    hey melanie,

    still being the mel-in-melodramatic? don't want to spring more bad news on you, but i got an email from the alumni association. hope you still remember our jr year english teach. . .

Suddenly I remember what I was thinking during those idyll last days of summer. I had been writing a list.

1. I had scrawled. Alex Garland wrote The Beach when he was 26.

2. Helen Oyeyemi wrote The Icarus Girl when she was 19.

I get up to check the macaroni. Too much time has passed, and I haven't written a single page. I squeeze the thick cheese from the packet onto the cooked noodles. Plans, outlines, sketches, notes in the margins—that is all my progress has amounted to so far. I stir.