Sunday, 22 January 2012

Does your floor eat things?

I don't know about your floor, but on numerous occasions I swear to God my floor has eaten things.

I think it's time for a flashback to explain:

March 23rd, 2006. On a cold and frigid winter morn, the sun was rising over the eastern horizon. The world awoke from it's slumber and I, mysterious and stunningly good-looking guitarist, was playing a melody beckoning the new day. Few birds sung in the lonely tree's, as if they lamented the loss of their vibrant world, now encased in a steel prison of ice and snow. All that could be heard (from just outside my window) was the sweet melody of an electric guitar with the reverb set to 5. Soon, a solo sprung from my finger tips, gradually growing stronger and more confident as if it were a seedling of some great oak. The notes sung from the Marshall amp that lay two feet away from where I stood. A ray shone though the open window and lit the amp, as if a divine presence looked over it.

It was coming, I could feel it. Slowly, like a front-line warrior anticipating the battle ahead, the solo began to grow impatient. It was coming, the climax of the piece, the natural bend that would pierce spines with shivers of awe. The notes grew faster, breathing hastily and even holding in desire. Up the scale my finger's walked. The hero ascended into the lair of the beast, ready for blood. His sword drew high. Soon it would come crashing down.

But, at that moment, like an ill-fated torment of some jealous god, the pick within my left hand slipped and fell towards the ground. I could not move, frozen in the moment. It was as if the the pick and I were trapped within an unstable fabric in the bed sheets of time. It fell, and I watched it's every flutter and twist. An eternity had passed since the descent had begun. But now it was almost to the floor. It hit the ground then, suddenly the pick was nowhere to be seen.

I began to search wildly. Under the coach, around the amp, under the carpet, in my wallet, on the self, in the Xbox. It was gone. Vanished. I had watched it in slow motion, falling to the floor, yet now I had no idea where it was.

Weeks went by. I continued to play, but always the pick echoed in my every thought. Where could it have gone. It couldn't have disappeared, could it? I would look every so often, but I'd never find it.

The floor had eaten it.

Over the few years of living here, I have lost about 5,678 picks to the appetite of my floor. I've also lost 32 socks, a basket ball and my virginity.

It's still hungry.


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