Micolus the Colossus

Orgy of Ants


I woke up thinking it was Saturday. It was Tuesday. The raindrops fell silently upon the grey asfalt ground outside the window, creating songs sung by marching insects. They were brave beings, the insects, and they threw themselves at the windows standing in their way; their pain was to be heard by man only as a tiny vibration; nothing to ever mind or think about, only a slight disturbance in our beautiful society.

Except for the rain's harmonious drops knocking in the distance, all I ever heard was the whispering of the dark blue sky outside. The stars were slowly disappearing in the wet embrace of the heavenly clouds and the air was moist. Moist and cold. The clock striked six. He had been sure that it was earlier; he had been sure that there was no more working today, or ever. And whatever he had been sure of, or dreamed of, was crushed in an instant by that cynical clock. That cynical clock of apathy and stagnation.

It raced forward, towards the day and the light, towards Tuesday. Blinking sadistically once every minute, 60 times before that horrible tune would ring. He hated that tune more than everything else. That cheery song, played only by the most hollow shades of our society; those who try to imitate our emotion and pain; those whose sole wish is to once again feel the feelings of their pasts and their childhoods. Those who craved love, but sacrificed it for lust. Those who chose power over peace.

It would cut through his ears and the very eyes of the human hive would stare deeply into his, searching for any... malfunctions. He didn't really know how much time remained until that wretched ritual, but he didn't mind. He couldn't. Time ceased to exist as he was flung into oblivion, only to wake up after a lifetime of harmony and peace, to the sounds of man conquering man. Power, our God. Power over our selves, and over the Whole.

0700

Fuck. The black and blue was now pale and white. God blew gentle white steam into the room, as the icicles outside began to melt. The leaves had all fallen and were now buried under a vast cushion of white snow. The tune was still ringing throughout the whole scenery, and his awe turned into anger. A burning fire emerged within his soul as all snow became black pools of smudge. Toxic waste oozing in from the window, and black ants falling from the sky. He grabbed his cell phone and looked at it with hatred and contempt. It screamed even louder as the cords within it were being slowly crushed. It screamed until the very end. But alas, it would never blink again.

The man turned around in his bed and moved closer to the wall. Nothing but a velvet pillow accompanied him during his sleep. And he dreamt of love and beauty, untouched by the ants plunging routinedly into the wasteland oceans of reality. Untouched by their ignorance, alone in the universe. Alone, but not lonely.

And so he had been right; it had been Saturday all along, and nothing could have ever changed that.