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it's like one of those bad dreams when you can't wake up ][ narrative
Alexander Georgiou is thirty-three.
And it's weird.
Thirty-three is a beautiful number, loopy and unrefined, looking whimsical no matter what you do to it. It's not quite old enough to be particularly distinguished but not young enough to be young, just hanging there in the middle with its springy weirdness, in the void where most people find themselves wondering if their life will be coming together after all.
So it's not bad, considering. It's not like Alex has anything to be ashamed of – he is wildly successful, obscenely rich, and poised on a path that will only further propel him into the world. The world which he will save.
But he's not supposed to be thirty-three.
In his bathroom (opulent, over-sized, tiled with blues and draped in white, hidden away on an island nation far from the political pulse of the earth), Alexander stares into his reflection and wonders how any of this even happened. Age has sneaked up on him, too distracted by revolutions and reordering and being lost in his own head to have noticed. There's no map after this point – he's let his past guide him until now, always searching and comparing, and now there's just nothing. It's all a blank.
Whatever transpired in the world beyond death, he has no memory of.
Alexander the Great died at thirty-two, heartbroken, bereft, and out of his damn mind. Alex stares into his own eyes – this time last year blue and blue, unbroken clear ocean water, now the blue-green split that he couldn't get used to not seeing so long ago. He wears contacts when he remembers, usually in business meetings; he doesn't know if anyone will notice, but it'd still be an awkward conversation to have – people don't just wake up and discover they've come down with a case of spontaneous heterochromia.
Watching his reflection (starting to age, still looking a bit too young when he shaves), he knows that now he is truly flying blind and alone, with no guide, no path to follow, and no steps to re-create. He's beat himself at the game of life – he's made himself stronger by eating his own suffering. There is a new web he must untangle that now lies with the others, some mystery beyond him, made of signs and divinity and the mixing of old and new.
By himself in this place he's built for himself, listening to the sounds of laughter echoing in the halls, Alexander smiles.
And it's weird.
Thirty-three is a beautiful number, loopy and unrefined, looking whimsical no matter what you do to it. It's not quite old enough to be particularly distinguished but not young enough to be young, just hanging there in the middle with its springy weirdness, in the void where most people find themselves wondering if their life will be coming together after all.
So it's not bad, considering. It's not like Alex has anything to be ashamed of – he is wildly successful, obscenely rich, and poised on a path that will only further propel him into the world. The world which he will save.
But he's not supposed to be thirty-three.
In his bathroom (opulent, over-sized, tiled with blues and draped in white, hidden away on an island nation far from the political pulse of the earth), Alexander stares into his reflection and wonders how any of this even happened. Age has sneaked up on him, too distracted by revolutions and reordering and being lost in his own head to have noticed. There's no map after this point – he's let his past guide him until now, always searching and comparing, and now there's just nothing. It's all a blank.
Whatever transpired in the world beyond death, he has no memory of.
Alexander the Great died at thirty-two, heartbroken, bereft, and out of his damn mind. Alex stares into his own eyes – this time last year blue and blue, unbroken clear ocean water, now the blue-green split that he couldn't get used to not seeing so long ago. He wears contacts when he remembers, usually in business meetings; he doesn't know if anyone will notice, but it'd still be an awkward conversation to have – people don't just wake up and discover they've come down with a case of spontaneous heterochromia.
Watching his reflection (starting to age, still looking a bit too young when he shaves), he knows that now he is truly flying blind and alone, with no guide, no path to follow, and no steps to re-create. He's beat himself at the game of life – he's made himself stronger by eating his own suffering. There is a new web he must untangle that now lies with the others, some mystery beyond him, made of signs and divinity and the mixing of old and new.
By himself in this place he's built for himself, listening to the sounds of laughter echoing in the halls, Alexander smiles.