“Our lives are just timewars
Silly, stubborn things that bubble between our rubber boots
Bärlauch-scented reminders of our own troubled superficialities
Simple, human objects
perceived through eyes that pretend to see
a fallacy all their own.
So, in the drunken stupor of self-awareness, we pretend to exist
pretend to hear
pretend to know
pretend to feel
with arrogant perspicacity:
the Zeit Kreig;
the war never won
the war never lost.”
With a raspy grunt, Erik pulled the nib out of his pen. It was a rustic tool, its usage reserved for the occasional half-hearted signature, or, in this case, frilly, meaningless poetry. Though seldom used, Erik found the pen wrote much more smoothly than any of the Party-distributed instruments. It was his treasure, a hidden bit of concubine that only he knew existed. In fact, that was what excited him the most. The thought of keeping something so illegal, so unorthodox, aroused him. It was the freedom, too. The freedom to hold a pen, a real pen, and the freedom to write freely.
With a drawn-out sigh, Erik roused himself into a better position and refocused on the page.
“Our lives are just timewars,” he said.
“How terribly ironic.”