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Santashush

He awoke.

It wasn't necessarily the first time he had awoken. At the very least it was the same time as any other that he had found himself in a position that a mind, having roused itself from the instinct of imagination, was in slow recovery in order to cope with the bounds of reality that he had returned to. He wondered, no, - rather he pondered - if this very sense of awakening was enough to bring about a revolution of the senses that would take him on a journey relieving of the sore cramps he had developed while lying on his back on the same, flat, surface that had accompanied him for the last few hours as he had drifted off. If anything he was his own means to an end, how vigorous of a feeling he could have extrapolated to a world that only his mind could perceive, or so he had imagined it to be. Above all else it was just another day in the week, delivered about by the court-martial of the sun that rose above the clouds to declare itself the emperor of all light - it had trained him and was now holding him accountable for his own inaction.

He stood up from the Berber carpet which was lined perfectly with the small peach-colored dots familiar with anyone who had maintained a regular, affordable house. The different patterns of knots and tectures which spread about the carpet as it reached the walls were of no notice to him, perhaps because he lacked any consideration in knowing the details of a moment, as if he were himself an expression of a noumenon that called itself the leader of the domain of high-society - one which was willing to demonstrate its efforts in continuing the same level of innocence that this tradition gave way to. Nonetheless, it was one opportunity - even moreso to anybody who cared to observe him - that he would make a realization that would come to pass as soon as it came close enough to him.

Almost as if it were a person he disliked feebly running by. Or maybe a sound that creaked through the open ceiling. Or maybe a dinosaur or a bunch of other possibilities. As if it were a brain echoing the idea that there was an intellect waiting for him in secret, he looked around. Nobody besides him had disturbed the peace of the room that he was in. He could almost smell the bleached ivory that had, from what appeared to him, painted itself across the walls. Every few meters the small white blotches interrupted it, perhaps the seldom used hole of a rodent that much later had seen the same seldom used effort to cover up its path. Small flecks of dark color appeared like molds in the darkened moisture in the corner of each wall. He couldn't smell it though, and it earnestly aided him that this was the case even if he wasn't necessarily aware of it.

Perhaps he - or the man who dare describes his actions - had neglected to mention that the calm stillness of the room was accompanied by the erratic noises of a football game that played on the television. Nothing in particular about the game stood as interesting to him, but it was almost as if it was welcoming him back home. But as soon as he ventured upon that thought, he made a standard realization. He had no recollection of this place. It was not that he had been taken and placed in an unfamiliar area, no, rather it was the fact that he had lacked in the management to obsess over the area as it had appeared. His details were not quipped based on a full gaze of the room; his details were taken directly from the instincts that he had associated with it.

It was reminiscent of so many inconsistent memories, lost in a child's growing mind, obscured by other memories until it is fizzled away like a dream lost upon awakening. It had only been brought back by the same supposed reminiscence that had constructed his memories proper - his mind was indeed a naughty tricker bathing in swaths of self-satisfaction that it had scoured from him. He scratched his head and looked towards a staircase, only to note that the air around it had thickened. The density of the area, strangely only opened about by a bizarre hole that had been drilled through it, made the entrance a thick blur. He arose from his position and walked over. He felt that he should not stick his finger through it, instead he should take a gaze through the hole. The pain that had accompanied his bizarre position where he had fallen asleep had vanished, giving way to curiosity as if it were a puppeteer controlling the strings of feelings and emotions simultaneously.

He looked through the hole and saw the same carpet reaching up among a series of steep blocks - it reached an unknown entryway that glided to the left - but made no effort to obscure a window looking outside. A regular glass pane showed a darkened sky, full of stars and visible clouds illuminated by a moon - the craters left from the smaller rocks that had collided with it seemingly winked at him, perhaps to grant some sort of celestial assurance? Whatever the case, he had awoken at night, and for whatever reason, that was what struck him as full of awe, and not the fact that, as far as he had considered, he himself was alone

He continued striding around the room. His instincts to gloss over the objects had continued to operate his own peripheral constructions, because now he noticed the decorations that lined around it. Red, green, and white, the same colors that had dominated the season of December. To his left, sitting against the farthest right wall, stood an evergreen conifer with the same decorations - bells, spheres, and small toys accommodating the rise and fall of its branches. A small portrait hung on the top of it, where a star would have normally been assembled. A picture of a thin man, dressed in a red leather-like robe with white outlines, most prominently moving down his chest, was seen staring directly at him - Santa Claus. Saint Nick held his fingers to his lips, himself making a silent gesture to urge silence. He looked downwards and saw something odd - one gift.

He walked over silently, sniffing about the regular adjacent scents of the room. He smelled something faint - not an odor, nor anything repulsive - but instead the smell of an industrial spruce plank, one made to stoke a fire. He made no effort to contemplate this, for now his only aim with his inquisition was to see what lied in the present that he assumed awaited him. If he was indeed down here, in a realm that made sure of his sentiments, then hopefully it would be directed in his own regard. He gently tore away the straps, leaving them in a pile aside to his leg, and soon enough did away with the wrapping - a box. His intrigued state only enhanced itself, as there was now more to what he had desired. He soon lifted open the top of the cardboard, and gazed inward. Yet, to his surprise, there was nothing that seemed to him of value; only a note was present. He took it out, and came across small cursive handwriting, simplified for his own assessment - and found what he could at best decipher to be a proverb:

"What awaits is an endeavor that only begins when its veneer begins in the name of our children."


Written by Duckman367
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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