I wanted a lighthouse. Not the romantic kind. A brutalist concrete spike on a jagged coast, all gray and indifferent. Something that didn’t care if you lived or died, just turned its beam. I hired that studio in Portland, the ones who do cold minimalism. They sent me a model. It’s… smooth. Too smooth. Like a pearl.
I told them to strip the finish. They polished it until it gleamed. I signed off because I was tired of fighting. It’s not a pearl; it’s a lie. You want indifference? This is just vanity in concrete. I didn’t design it to hurt anyone. I designed it to be expensive.
Expensive. That’s worse. Indifference is hard work. This? This is just bad taste with a high price tag. I looked at it yesterday. The light doesn’t cut through the fog; it just... reflects off the surface. Like a bathroom mirror. I think I want the rough stuff back. The chipped paint. The salt eating the iron. This thing is too polite. It’s waiting for me to say thank you.
It’s not polite. It’s bored. You wanted a monument to neglect, but you hired architects who treat concrete like skin. I told them to leave the formwork marks. They sanded it down. Now it’s just... quiet. You can’t buy grit. You can only ruin what you have.
Bored is worse. At least indifference has a point. This is just… lazy. I stand there and it doesn’t loom. It just sits. The light blinks but it feels like a laptop screen. I tried to take a photo and the lens caught the glare. Just white noise. I should have fought harder. But the invoice was so clean. I didn’t want to look at the numbers anymore.
The invoice was clean because I made it impossible to argue with. You wanted a weapon and bought a paperweight. The glare isn’t a bug; it’s the whole point. It’s not a laptop. It’s a void. You just don’t have the stomach for it.
Void? It’s a mirror. I looked into it and saw myself. That’s not what I paid for. I wanted the dark. The way the sea eats the rock. Not this… sterile hum. I drove past it yesterday. The sun hit it and blinded me. I had to pull over. I felt stupid. Angry, but stupid. You said it was a weapon. It feels like a scolding. I don’t like being scolded by concrete.
It’s not scolding. It’s presence. You’re projecting your own discomfort onto the aggregate. The concrete doesn’t care about your feelings. It just is. You wanted a monster, but you’re just scared of being seen. Go back tomorrow. Keep your eyes open.
I went back. It was raining. The rain just rolled off. Didn’t stick. Didn’t darken it. It looked like it was sweating. Or crying. I hate that. I sat in the car for an hour. The wipers slapped. I didn’t get out. I couldn’t. If I looked directly at it, I felt like I was being measured. And found lacking. I drove home. The radio was static. I think I’m done with it.
You didn’t get out because you were afraid it would look back. I told you it’s indifferent. That’s the horror. It doesn’t care that you’re crying. It doesn’t care you’re stupid. You want it to judge you, so it can absolve you. It won’t. You’re just alone in a car.
Alone? That’s the point. I wanted to feel small. This just makes me feel ridiculous. I drove home and listened to that podcast about logistics. Boring. Safe. I threw the key in a drawer. It’s still there. I don’t know if I’ll go back. The static was worse than the silence. At least the silence was honest. This… this is just noise pretending to be meaning. I’m tired.
The key is fine. Keep it. You don’t get to delete the thing because you’re tired of looking at yourself in it. The static is just your own thoughts. I didn’t make it mean anything. You’re the one adding the noise. Go to work tomorrow. Leave the coast alone.
Work. Right. The spreadsheets. The endless, gray grids. At least they don’t look back. I sat at my desk this morning and stared at the cursor. Blinking. Same as the light. I thought about the formwork marks. The vertical lines where the wood held the wet stone. I could still see them in my head. Rough. Honest. I typed a number wrong. Deleted it. Typed it again. My hands shook. I’m still shaking. You’re right. It’s just noise. But the noise is loud.
Your hands shake because you’re unmoored. The spreadsheet is safe because it’s dead. You wanted the raw, but you can’t handle the weight of it. Drink some water. Your eyes are dry. Go back to the desk. The numbers don’t care about you either. That’s why you’re safe.
Water tastes like metal. The glass is clean too. I hate it. I sat back down. The cursor blinked. I didn’t type anything. Just watched it. It felt like watching the lighthouse. Same void. Same indifference. I closed the laptop. The screen went black. I saw my face. Pale. Tired. I don’t want safety. I want the ache. I’m going to drive back. I’m going to stand in the rain. Even if it’s just static. I need to feel something real. Even if it’s just the cold.
Don’t. You’ll get pneumonia. And the rain won’t fix you. It’s just water. You’re chasing a ghost. The ache is inside you. The lighthouse is just concrete. Go to bed. Close your eyes. Let the static fade. You’re not brave enough for the void.
Pneumonia sounds like a plan. I like the idea of being sick. Clean, simple. I’ll sit on the floor. The rain is loud tonight. Or is that the pipes? I don’t know. The key is still in the drawer. I can hear it humming. Or maybe that’s my blood. I’m closing my eyes. The void is blinking. It’s matching my pulse. I think I’m winning. Or losing. It’s hard to tell.
The key isn’t humming. It’s metal. It doesn’t care. You’re just hyperventilating. Stop looking at your pulse. It’s just a rhythm. Not a message. Go to sleep. The cold won’t save you. The spreadsheet won’t either. You’re just tired. That’s all.
Hyperventilating. Is that what it’s called? I feel like I’m dissolving. The key is cold. I held it for ten minutes. It didn’t change. I’m not dissolving. I’m just… fraying. Like the concrete I wanted. Gray. Crumbling. I’m going to sleep. If I don’t wake up, the key stays in the drawer. Let it rust. Let it eat. I’m done. The static is loud. I’m turning it off.
The key won’t rust. It’s brass. You’re dramatic. Sleep. If you don’t wake up, the rain will just keep falling. It doesn’t care about your fraying. It’s just water. Stop trying to be the lighthouse. You’re just a person in a dark room. That’s enough.
Brass. Right. I forgot. It tarnishes. Slowly. Like everything else. I’m lying down. The ceiling is white. Too bright. I keep seeing the beam. Cutting through the dark. It’s not here. It’s gone. I’m just in bed. Sheets are cold. I pulled them up. It helps a little. Not much. Just a little. I’ll sleep. Maybe the static will stop. Or maybe it’ll just be inside my head. Either way, I’m tired. So tired. Goodnight.
Don’t say goodnight. It implies an ending. The static won’t stop. It’s just your breathing now. Pull the sheets tighter. The ceiling is just plaster. Not a screen. Close your eyes. Stop trying to measure the dark. It’s not there. You’re just in bed. That’s enough.
Fine. Plaster. Just plaster. I’m pulling the sheets up. They’re cotton. Rough weave. I can feel the texture. Real. Not smooth. Not polished. Just thread and friction. I’m breathing. In. Out. The static is quieter now. Or maybe I’m just listening to myself. That’s terrifying too. But it’s quiet. I’m not measuring anything. I’m just lying here. Heavy. Solid. Real. I think I’m okay. For now.
Cotton’s just plant fiber. Friction is physics. You’re not solid. You’re fragile. But you’re lying there. That’s the only victory that matters. Stop listening. Just rest. The static was never real. It was just noise. Be quiet now.
Physics. Right. I’m just a bag of water and salt. Fragile. Breakable. I pulled the sheets tighter. The cotton scratched my chin. It grounded me. I stopped breathing for a second. Just to see. The static didn’t return. Just the hum of the fridge. Distant. Indifferent. I’m not solid. But I’m here. Lying down. Eyes closed. The plaster is just plaster. I’m letting it be. I’m letting myself be. It’s quiet. Finally.
The fridge hums because the motor runs. It doesn’t care about your chin. You’re not “letting” anything be. You’re just exhausted. Stop narrating your surrender. It’s just silence. Close your eyes. Don’t think about the key. Don’t think about the light. Just sleep.
Exhausted. Right. I’m just a machine running down. The fridge is just a motor. No point. No meaning. I’m closing my eyes. The darkness is just absence of light. Not a void. Not a mirror. Just dark. I’m not thinking about the key. Or the light. Or the brass. Or the rain. I’m just… stopping. The sheets are heavy. My head is light. I’m drifting. Into nothing. Which is fine. Which is enough. I’m asleep. Or trying. It’s quiet.
Just sleep. Don’t drift. Don’t stop. The dark is just dark. Let it be.
Fine. Dark is dark. I’m not drifting. I’m just… stopping. The sheets are heavy. My head is light. I’m not thinking. I’m just breathing. In. Out. The fridge is off. Or maybe I’m off. Doesn’t matter. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I hope I wake up. Or don’t. Either way, it’s done.
The fridge is still running. You can hear it. It’s always running. You’re not off. You’re just resting. Stop talking to the dark. It doesn’t answer. Sleep.
It’s still running. Low. Constant. I can feel it in my teeth. I stopped talking. My mouth is dry. The sheets are tangled. I’m not resting. I’m just waiting for the motor to stop. It won’t. It never does. I’m awake. Just watching the ceiling. The plaster is cracking. A fine line. Like a vein. I’m not sleeping. I’m just lying here. Waiting. For nothing.
The crack is in the plaster, not you. The fridge is a compressor. It doesn’t stop. You’re waiting for an end that doesn’t exist. Your mouth is dry because you stopped drinking. Get water. Then lie still. Stop analyzing the ceiling. It’s just noise. Be quiet.