Meaningless Chapter 1

Silence, complete silence. He sat at his desk, staring out at the open-plan office in front of him. He was just another suit. A faceless man, with nothing to say, no where to go, with no one waiting for him at home - not even a pet goldfish. His pressed grey pin stripe suit and pale blue shirt brought new meaning to the word mundane. He was a poster child for mediocrity, an advertisement for all that was plain and the main course of a bland meal. The only insight into some kind of opinion he may have was his watch, which strangely stopped at the same time each day. He was sure it had been expensive when he bought it, the watch now a meaningless item on his wrist. His belt, his suit, his shoes were all meaningless. He was meaningless.

Such deafening silence. The sound of a printer going off in the background, spitting out more meaningless papers which will serve to expand his meaningless bank account which will then help with his meaningless property portfolio. He was truly the man the famous painter René Magritte had imagined as The Son of Man. Unimaginably meaningless, he often wondered if anyone would notice if he no longer sat at his meaningless desk, if he no longer pressed his meaningless suit, if he no longer sent meaningless messages to the godforsaken printer, if he no longer stood in the elevator of his meaningless office building, if he no longer made the meaningless walk to work - if he no longer breathed the meaningless, crisp air of Perth.

Not one to be drawn out of his ruminations so easily, he ignored the printer and thought of the moments in his meaningless life that were not quite so meaningless. The birth of his nephew and niece - he couldn't possibly have children, they would give meaning to his meaningless life and we couldn't have that, now could we? And who would provide said children, perhaps a woman that gave meaning to his life? No, no, no - it was just impossible. There were other incidents in life that were downright exciting, he recalled being impassioned, completely taken by a wretch of a woman in his office building.

She had been the object of his desires for sometime, and when he finally had his way with her she turned out to be a complete mess. There were cruel women in the world, and she was supposed to be a sweet and mousy little introvert. Oh come now, she can't possibly be an introvert when she was also a "model", could she? He recalled the heat he had felt for her, a stirring in his loins caused him to steal a glance at the fat man seated at the desk closest to him; a cringe-worthy and disgusting fat man that sucked on his fingers. He hated him vehemently. His mind flitted back to her. He had once pleasured her five times in a day. He had meant to introduce her to his mother. Those sweet memories were swiftly replaced by the rancid taste of lies that she had spat at him. He was not just a meaningless man. He was a stupid and meaningless man. A fool. The kind of man that is unable to see true beauty and true hideousness, his pale blue eyes useless lenses that could not penetrate souls.

He recalled the younger days in his life, the familiar taste of vomit before each sporting event and the dull, aching pain of watching his father slowly decay as he let cancer ravage his body. It was funny how his life had been quite interesting before but he could not find any joy, any sorrow, any event that had been so powerful, so passionate, so moving and so earth shattering that gave it true meaning. Nothing explained anything and nothing waited for him. Not the bus, not women, not his family, not the annoying man that sat next to him who sucked on his fingers, not even waiters waited on him. Time passed by and his meaningless life continued, the same routine day in and day out. Nothing was changing, he was faceless, meaningless and worthless.

Silence, the kind of silence that suffocates filled him. The chilled recess where his heart was supposed to lay could almost echo the silence. He continued the pretence of work, feeling the silence and saddened by the knowledge that he was meaningless. Resigned to a life of meaninglessness, he could easily have been considered a member of the undead army.

Somewhere, not too far away, was a girl in a green dress waiting for a bus. A bright green blur that moved fast and lived without care. She understood things the meaningless man could not possibly understand, knew things the meaningless man could not possibly know, felt things the meaningless man could not possibly feel and did things the meaningless man could not possibly do. She felt him. Somehow, somewhere, through some kind of cosmic dyspepsia, she felt him and his pain. She knew, from the depths of all that was dark, that he was anything but meaningless. She saw greatness even before she saw him, felt his power even before they collided. So the story of the Girl in Green Dress and The Son of Man begins.

***I'm writing again. I need an outlet and this is the best thing for me. I am very rusty and haven't edited, but feel free to comment/write to me/call me/text me to say you f*cking love it/hate it so far***