ethrosdemon ||| Smallville

Sein Und Zeit- Being and Time
by ethrosdemon

EMAIL: naturallycalm@yahoo.com
Spoiler: none
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Lex. Concentrating too hard on everything and nothing at all.


Lex lets his wrist drop off the arm of his leather, office chair. The weight of his watch pulls it straight down, and the blood zooms to his palm and fingers immediately. His clock becomes the thump, thump of his heart as it squeezes blood out to his extremities. He doesn't interrupt the engorging of the tissue, just remains paused, static, dangling in mid-living as his fingers are in mid-air.

His eyes focus and unfocus on a particularly determined beam of light; the palm-wide ray holds a smothering's worth of dust aloft. The specks of lint dance and swirl, and he wonders if it's time to let the staff in to clean the office again. In the late afternoon lull, sun too strong and vibrant on his scalp and back, he considers ideas like that. Trifles. What-ifs. Whims. His fingers tingle, and his unshuttered thoughts lead him to contemplate the word 'sinister' and left-handedness. About wearing his watch on his left hand because his right-handed mother taught him to. Nothing pressing, no numbers or horizons or specifics.

The stem of his watch digs into the back of hand and the effort to bend it just enough to keep from bruising seems far too great. His eyes slide shut, and he drifts. Not in sleep but in being here, today, alive. So close to not, to not existing, it's never far from his thoughts. The weight of life tugs at him. The pulse in his hand thrums, tiny seizures beneath his surface; the steady beat reminds him his seconds of death are in the past, ephemeral, and he definitely has Now. His muscles unflex from scalp to toes, and his thoughts join the dust and flitter away, miniscule and inchoate.

He flows like the light and the dust and simply exists. No more whims, no more anything but open and nownownow. So many other minutes of the day to plot and plan, work and strive, the six o'clock hour is for existentialism. It's for simply being, for savoring what he will do every second of every day when he Gets There. In the amorphous, gilt future when he's succeeded. When he lays his enemies to waste and stands as the sole victor. He will indulge in the one true unattainable desire of the ambitious, time to simply be.

He's still working out what the plastic destiny might consist of; there's time enough for the work of man on the other side of his afternoon idyll. He doesn't think about that now. There is no thinking in being, no matter what dead Frenchmen wrote on the topic. Lex finds his self in stillness, cessation of striving, stepping outside the lines of the day-planner. In these seconds, there are only the memory of the mote jitterbug, the scent of overly warmed carpet, and the sensation in his sinistral digits.



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