The Constancy of Change

A Story by soneutral

This is a short story about how we can never escape even the smallest of changes and be unperturbed by them.

“With zeal should we go about our days; if you are happy then your happiness should be such that the man sitting six rows behind you should feel you exuding joy. Similarly if you are envious, you must do it fully-there is no point in feeling envious of one’s neighbor, the same one that flirts with one’s wife, for that is only dispersing your emotion within a few hundred feet. There is then a task before you: to spread thy jealousy far and wide, for a job half done is just that. And so one must go about feeling jealous of everything, for example the child, who after leaving his house, skips to his bus stop-you wish for a bus stop, you wish to skip despite being several times the boy’s size.

“Along with performing to the fullest it is equally important to be ascetic in all you do. What would be the reasoning behind cleaning one’s room in the morning only to sleep in it again in the afternoon, only to make it again within hours? The logic is simple, the execution often tiresome, and yet one should learn (and then adopt implicitly) the notion that work shall never be enjoyable, and instead retain its true properties of being often tedious. It is through experience then it shall be asserted that the fewer feelings one has when about to do perfunctory work, the easier and more efficient it becomes. Unlike the first law of thermodynamics, work, in contrast to energy, can be created and destroyed. It is then one’s duty to seek and abolish all work in their midst, for as one ages, the work decreases and the time increases.

“The humming, the la-dee-daing, it can no longer be tolerated. Why is it that such few individuals possess the collective intelligence of billions, and only one resides in my house?” This question was met by more sounds, until finally Mrs. Write entered her husband’s door, only to ascertain that it was indeed anger that emanated from his study to the kitchen. “You are upset, but it should be of solace to you to know that you have exuded your upsetness to quite a new degree.” She smiled, “I came only to remind you that the cleaning lady needs dirt to clean and mouths to feed, and your room has by far the most incentive for her.” “You know quite well the study has remained as it is for years now. Will it be my responsibility, then, to inform your new cleaner of all sixty-five things that are never to be touched, or have you still the list I made for the old lady?” “Oh, yes, the list. I am surprised your numbers have not increased for the untouchables in this room. Never mind, I have retained the list and shall give it to her promptly.” She turned to leave, “Mr. Write, you will not forget that even the staunchest of men should replenish and care for the heart they claim to have; your breakfast then shall be served in exactly four minutes and two seconds.” This oddly elicited a smile from Mr. Write, and as he heard his wife’s footsteps down the hall, he also heard “Three-fifty-eight.”

Precisely three minutes and fifty seconds later Mr. Write found himself heading toward the kitchen. Once there he saw toast, jam, and a now chirpy Mrs. Write at the table. Their breakfast was consumed in comfortable silence, only to be interrupted by the cleaning lady in the upstairs bedrooms, whose rather heavy frame could be heard as it moved from room to room. Mrs. Write paid no attention and instead sipped her tea, commented on the fineness of such a day, and listed off errands Mr. Write had no interest in hearing, “And then I shall head to the bank for a deposit, meet my good friend Mrs. Chambers and finally come home to a house neat and clean, for I am grateful that we were able to replace Hilda. I surely hope her sister’s illness does not worsen.” “Mrs. Write, is that all you will do today?” “Why do you ask?” “I felt the need to hear my own voice to make sure I still had one, is all.” Mrs. Write only chuckled at such a comment and responded to it by picking up Mr. Write’s breakfast much before the entirety of it had been eaten.

Mr. Write found himself once more heading toward his study and once settled in, resumed his writing, “It should be of no trouble to one that work becomes scarce, for,” he froze in his chair. The window he looked out from, with its dark frame and high glass, appeared quite different-and after close inspection he found exactly what it was. It was cleaner than usual, and this made Mr. Write highly uncomfortable at first-and then finally downright angry. Mrs. Write was beckoned to the study, struck by the absence of the clicking of keys on the typewriter, and once inside, happened upon a crazed looking Mr. Write. “My dear, what is the matter? Is it your health? Is it chilly inside? Have you written the most monumental something?” For a second Mr. Write did not speak, “My window is clean, Mrs. Write, my window is clean.” Mrs. Write’s gasp was succeeded by vigorous brainstorming as to how such a thing could have happened. “Surely it is the maid, Mrs. Write. The list, the window was on it. How could she miss the window?” “I will speak to her immediately,” his wife replied, and with this she hurried upstairs and was down within the minute. “Mr. Write, she has not entered your study and could therefore have cleaned no window here. Perhaps the sprinkler has done this.” “No Mrs. Write, it cannot be so. There were exactly eleven specks of dust on the top half of the window and today there are only three. The sprinkler surely does not pick and choose where its water should go.” After much contemplation it was decided that Mr. Write should attempt to write once more (a futile thought) and that the work of the window could only be explained by forces higher than themselves.