Machines

I am tired. Exhaustion courses through my veins, as my bones seem to sag against the soft cushion of my mattress. Light glows softly from the small machine. It is an environment enhancer, with a multitude of sounds and a water fountain to soothe the weary mind. I set it on "sunrise," and listen to the mellow chords that are not a song, just a pattern of musical ephemera that flits in and out of my consciousness. My room is a mossy green, with patches of white along the carpet testifying to the forgetfulness of the painter who forgot to finish. In the corner is a brigh pink door, hiding the closet. The paint swatch referred to it as "peony," though gazing upon it in all its blushing glory, I can only describe it as fushia. In the faint light, though, it softens and seems to fade into the darkness of the room.

Night seems to be the only time in which I find solace. The too-loud roar of the furnace reminds me of a boisterous seashore, and thankfully, it cannot be ignored. The intrusive sound purchases the flurry of thoughts and frustrations that race through my head, and forces me to settle into its rhythm. When it shuts off, with a loud "chink" of air suddenly stopping in its course, I am left with the polite tinkling of the water fountain and the soft noises the machine creates.

Irony....the machines are what give me peace. Their sounds and rhythms invade my space, and while I often curse my reliance on them and their inconvenient volume, it is also my savior in the over-burdened silence of the night. Their insistent mechanics quiet the soul and allow the mind its brief moment of rest.