He was dead……..Metaphorically that is.

Stanley was cycling back from a game night he had with friends.

It was a very agreeable time, indeed. He had nearly won a trivia game, while not being the brightest, and made some chuckling jokes, although the subject of which were not.

The chips were also good, yet the experience might get stained by the quantity consumed.

You would not think twice if you heard his rattling bike roll past your window. He was not poor, it should be said, but simply frugal. If you would turn your head for the metal collectors band, Stanleys long, dimmed yellow jacket would certainly enter your library.

The jacket was of profound usage, since the deep pockets allowed his phone to keep dry.

Not that it would break from a bit of rain. It just felt right for him to keep his miracle brick away from any chance of danger.

The road home always felt like a marathon on steroids. Stanley was aware of the length of this journey, but couldn’t grab his phone or a book for stimulation. As always, it was just him and his thoughts keeping each other company. He never tried to evoke something while traveling, but despite that he would always have something to think about. Sometimes the euphoric sight of his beloved and other times the stinging bullet of existentialism. He was as much in control of the images he got to see as a Russian during the Cold War.

The night sky was pitch black with a few points shooting lasers at his eyes. Although they hurt, those dots of unending power had stolen his gaze. Stanley always had a slight obsession with that beyond his grasp. His mother was never allowed to touch his telescope to clean it. Those lenses are the only expensive part of his entire room. Spinoza knew what he was doing when he turned to sharpening those light benders.

As he got home from Poseidon’s wrath, Stanley removed his, now, orange jacket and hanged it on a chair with his shoes beneath it by the fireplace. His parents were already upstairs, however only his mother was sleeping. His father usually played chess on his addictive brick before turning to the land of nod. They were quite remarkable people, in their youth. His mother was trained in an orchestra, and his father trained in taking driving exams. Stanley brushed his teeth, washed his hands, changed from his usual sweater-Jeans combo into his striped pajamas. In all of these actions, he gets more dizzy from one to the next. Not because he was drunk- Stanley did not drink at all of that matter- but simply because his mind knew it was time to shut everything off. Then saying goodnight to the body of his father, and hearing a half mumbled response, he walks to the opposite side of the floor guarded by the balustrade, where his resting place resided. As he connects his brick to the genius of Tesla and puts it on his bookstack, Stanley joins his mother, awaiting the other.

It is quite remarkable how a lifetime can pass when we dream, not limited to body, space or time. Stanley had a hard time appreciating this, since his mind plagued itself with horrors unmatched by even the medieval times. It was not a new thing to him, yet he still awoke as if he were a fish dragged ashore. Quickly reclaiming his mind, he turned on a light and looked at the blocky clock. 5:27, One and a half hour to early. The worst time to wake up since he could not go to sleep again, and also not go downstairs, because his mother would certainly snap awake. Stanley had nothing more to do than reading further in Northanger Abbey. Janes enthusiasm did keep him awake until the cuckoo started freaking out. Quietly, he went across the floor again to get dressed in his usual combo again. He walked on his toes to the stairs, which does not make any difference, thanks to the creaky white wooden steps protected by that fuzzy red carpet. Stanley was never good with birthdays, but the one of his mother he could remember. If he ever were to forget, the alarm would go off, so it is more by necessity that he knew. There is a lot of information like that in someone’s life.

Turning on some light, he put everything on the table to eat his breakfast. At least, if you could call it that. It existed out of bread with butter and chocolate paste. No morning would he start without consuming chocolate. You wouldn’t be able to see it in his figure, not because he was small and barely on weight, but because of his being small leads to clothes that never fit him properly. After his bread, he poured himself a glass of milk, which he drank a liter the day of.

His routine was basic, in some aspects more than others. He never liked waking up on Sunday. Stanley was not a boy that enjoyed working, yet he knew it was good to do so. Logistics, that was his payer. He always went with an old decrepit electric bike, which got to dangerous for his grandmother. After stalling the most he could before him being late, there he went. Oh, how a journey he had to ride. It was dry, but inclement weather.

There could have been so many things that bothered him. The bad sleep, bad clouds, him following his father in driving skills, the loose seat on his bike. Maybe a broken light, although it was not a dark morning. Whatever it was, he was now more close to death than yesterday. That is true for everyone, however Stanley could not have been more close. He did not react, had closed eyes, only breath made noise.

If only there was a screen attached to his mind. Now, he was retreated into his world with ghosts and stars. Let it be in his favor, and let Hades not see.