I am lying in my room, on a cool Friday night. I look at my wrist. There is no watch on it. I turn my head and I see it. The watch lies flat in the table, and its face is tilted away from my line of vision. I do not know what time it is. I look up at the ceiling and see it for the formless perfection of white that it is. There is nothing I can fault it for. It has an even coating of white paint and has a perfectly flat surface a plane could land on if the ceiling was inverted and stretched on for four kilometers. But it wasn’t. It was the wrong side up and was only three meters across. Maybe that’s why we called it a ceiling and not a runway. It’s funny how we classify things when they could essentially fulfil the same function with a different twist to it. Or maybe that’s why we classify things, according to various degrees of unfulfilled potential. Maybe.
I hear a voice managing different notes outside, just by the lift lobby. The voice belted out a rendition of Lady Gaga’s Pokerface. She sounds absolutely confident, every note struck like a wooden stick on water, and every lyric matched to karaoke machine perfection. Some karaoke machines aren’t perfect, come to think of it. They have various degrees of spelling errors, replaced words and incorrect timing, the words colouring over before their time. But that was not the karaoke machine this girl represented. She represented the karaoke machine that updated it self frequently, matching every word for its lyric, every prompt for the beat of the song. It was impeccable, and I listen as the voice fades out. A female voice, too, meandering it’s way into her room, by the looks of it. Or the sound of it. You know what I mean.
I sit there and I think. I think about how I think too much and I think about how I should think less. But still, I think. And that, it seems, is the problem. The runway continues to accomodate planes and the karaoke machine contines to fill up lyrics with the beat of the song, some accurately, some not. If these objects, these machines, if they had a soul, what would they think of themselves? Would they see their existence as something worthwhile? The tarmac that takes in thousands, millions of passengers at stretches of time, and the karaoke machine that belts out the instrumentals to mediocre singing and strained voices. What exactly does it fulfil, is the question that it would ask itself. It is a question that both Mr Runway and Mrs Karaoke machine would find hard to answer. Mr Runway has a way of fulfilling dreams or shattering lives in the coming and going, Mrs Karaoke machine an expert in the synthesis of happiness, the funnel where emotion flows through and out, into the smoky air of a soundproof room.
Whatever Mr Runway and Mrs Karaoke machine think or feel, it is shrouded in clueless irrelevance. I’m sure the formless ceiling and Poker Face girl won’t feel anything that our two protagonists feel. The former will continue staring down at me in all my insignificance and the latter will lie in her room and think of hers. After all, metaphors, being metaphors, only appear in your greatest time of need.