His spirit waxes stronger. So he says. He insists he no longer relishes solitude. He concedes it gratifies a worn soul. Something he says is pervasive in his world. He blames hubris battered in want, the want he says he imagines, dismissed. And he thanks fortune for his vision, now. He shifts a little on the rock and looks back in a swift scan as if his soliloquy must not travel past his lips.
It is after all another day, he says, even if about to end. His relief from work pries is evident in his glee as he leaves everyday like clockwork. He shuns the eyes that beckon there. He craves those that he says wait to bash him again. Nothing feels better he once quipped, although no one appears to listen when he speaks, of the pain he so much cherishes. It does not seem to matter, he says, after all they cannot speak. He says he only cares that he alone knows why his pain equals joy.
It starts to drizzle. Then headwinds blow his words away. He sighs. He says that it feels better. He wants all else to know as much as he claims he does not. He says he feels his conflict like he breathes air, his ecstasy even now, in the open. He is unable to explain why this is so when he answers questions as he does routinely at home, or as he sometimes says, prefers mystery to reign.
It hardly stops to rain at home these days. His fixes do not seem enough to stop the rain. Yet, he says he has a world to care for he does not care. He seems proud of what he does. After all, he argues everything is clean and tidy. And the outside indeed, seems to mirror within. He often says that is how things should be, even as he admits in his solitude his anguish cloaks want.
Then he says it is real, when he says he wants to be fair to himself, even outside solitude. That does not happen often though. He says it is sacrilege, that it opens too much of within to the outside. He fears the worst, the loss, and the pain, he says, but that he fears pain no more, all other. He shrugs, defiantly on the rock.
He declares more audibly that he is never going to stop, that he will never give up. He says it is like turning back three-quarter ways into a trip, feigning tire. He reassures himself that he is strong, that he has to be strong, that one needs to be strong. Then he says more than that one has to think. He says he has to think, all the time, anew.
He admits his fault. He says he let things slide over the years. He grieves boredom but says he accepts or rejects blame for that as his spirit calls. He says that is part of thinking hard too, not doing enough of which he asserts is history. He seems unabashed about not wanting to lose, to concede defeat to another, perhaps just as naïve even if for now fluky, he avers.
He remembers the slip others get, which someone dangles before him too, with warnings to dance. He says he likes to work, even as he cringes to scrub lifeless skulls. He needs to win, he tells himself as thoughts of displeasure from the table he admits threaten to yank his skull. With company he sometimes closes their eyes, with the linen, afraid, he says, his eyes tell he is one of them, sometimes.
So, he is happy to leave the lab the day he is also able to decide his fate. He says so. It does not seem so though, two hours after he should have been home. Yet, he says he is ready. Apparently, he is not going to budge. He gets up after a while, checks his watch, and sits again. He mutters he is not done. He says he needs to think a little more.
He knows he says he has to remake himself, better still, even after having been working on it for six weeks. He admits he feels good though, in body at least, and now he needs to complete the job. Nothing he says is worth more than so doing, if he must win.
Ten years is a long time to stay still, he moans. He says it is as if the smugness he laments still sticks. He says though he moans only to jolt. He needs that more than anyone else now, he claims, that he needs a different sort of pain, one that makes him act not in vain.
He says he must eschew tedium, and present a new era. He claims to know that much to stay in the game. Everything has to be brand new, and as he says believable. He says he knows he needs to be seen in action, in exertion over his goal. He says he prepares for what it takes as he does knowing how easy it is to fail.
He wants to give his all, as he does but now another way. He says it has to be different to work. Yet, he says the message cannot, and must not change. That he must rummage must not be strange. He even adds that this is the core of the pain he craves. He wants to be in pain, because he claims he has no choice but to win his game.
To wait for a decade he says must not fritter away the object of his soul. He must know the valour in soullessness that rips ennui apart he claims to labour for so long with grace. It is priceless he says then and now he looks ahead to gain what he covets so much in shame. He gets up again, and this time walks away. He continues to mutter though he claims to fuse his parts for the day.
It does not seem in doubt that he needs to do that as he claims to start a bright new night that preludes a continuum of change he seems to reluctantly admit he needs to nurture his soul, which he concedes he has to do, first, just as he does everyone else must, as who he craves.
