2Worry for One
She sat in a minimally furnished room, and it would appear to most that she was reading the news on her computer screen, when in actuality she had re- read ".and neither official can offer any explanation as to why." fifty- four times in the last two minutes. She didn't really care about what was happening in the world, she was just having another epiphany. Mirroring all the others, it was another resolution to change, an empty promise made in her unconscious mind that would, in less than the time it takes to make a mistake, drift into infinity and be forgotten forever.
So was her life, perpetually lost in thought and permanently detached, neither pessimist nor optimist, neither liberal nor conservative, neither pleasing nor offending. The reality-minded portion of her consciousness hummed and mulled over today, while her everything else remained impenetrable and polarized.
The poster tacked over the window read, "Potential: not everyone can be an astronaut." It is scary how real thoughtful evolution is. She wanted to be special and brave, but all she saw were the menial, degrading, unglamorous occupations. They were occupying her. Push never shoved her. Her potential embodied the work force for the labor of hate.
She absentmindedly stroked the keys with her fingers, her nails scraping the edges of the keys in front. The fingers that combed her hair, washed her skin, put on her clothes, wrote her essays, drove her car. . . they were her potential. They now typed, "I want to be assimilated." No response. Time for reflection, haunting reflection.
She didn't reflect. Her unconscious mind, ever in control, slid her mechanical fingers over the trigger of the revolver. Mission complete.
Fingers: the mind's bullet.