Power Microcosm

Prologue

     This book if for, the readers.

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   Slouching in the chair he sits, and his shoulders tired in image, the man is settling into the seat he has taken a few seconds ago. The weight of the world is broken into shards and shoves down sharply on him, relentless, and his body truly reflects it.

   Dressed in a suit of black and white, it would be obvious to assume a man of business. Perhaps very successful. But the necktie though loose seems almost to choke the tiny man, and the black coat like the wings of a black daemon reach out to drag him under the blanket of the earth. The unseen force pulling the man into the chair to slump, his posture crippled. A spine tired and twisted supports his sitting figure in front of the doctor.

   The doctor, who is in a generic white coat, is not as impartial as most physicians are to their patients. Professionality requires some banter as to understand the pain of the unfortunate, but hardly does that extend past to form relationships. The modern world with moving families and doctors like two roulette wheels in different floors seems coherent as an analogy.

   They sit at a table, in the doctor's office. With a noiseless clock and large windows. Light from the day outside wanders in. The blinds half closed. The doctor with his left side against a desk and the man with his right to it. A large desk, papers and books, a few pictures in frames. Paperclips, pencils, and notepads scattered.

  "It seems that you aren't exactly the best of health," says the doctor, noting some papers with results; readings on dirty blood and parched lungs, and bones in aching shivers. Organs tired and the cells bursting with fatigue.

  "I..." replies the man seated, small, dark-brown and black hair, and nasty colored skin, "I try to be healthy."

"I'm sure most people these days do," replies the doctor. Not harshly, as it'd be pointless to talk, more firmly, to iterate his firmness of the diagnoses.

  "You...still smoke?" asks the doctor, referring to a paper with some results with his eyes.

   "I do occasionally," says the man, his slumped posture almost guilty, "when I come under some stress. I kicked the habit to the curve, but..."

   The voice is scratchy partially, and underlying tones of soft and smooth notes are lost in the sentence unfinished. Cracked glass and splintered wood could have been stuffed into the airway of his throat.

   "And, you seem to find little time to sleep," continues the physician, "your face is quite gaunt."

   "My profession hardly requires me being alluring," replies the man. Dark shadows under red eyes.

   "Still," says the doctor, pulling more papers out and continuing.

   "Huge amounts of phosphorus are also present in your body. Calcium deficiency, your kidney seems to be in poor health, and your lungs have tar. From smoking."

   The doctor turns back to look, not stare, at the slumped man.

   "I have no excuse," says the man, solemnly, "I am busy, and I have neglected my health."

   "It's more a concern whether this will change," notes the doctor.

   "I...I cannot give an answer to that," replies the man, almost defeatedly.

   A bit of silence, as the man looks down at his hands between his legs, and the doctor, takes a deep breath.

   "This lifestyle," says the doctor as he indicates the multiple papers spread out, each an ill augury recognized in the man, "it's...debilitating to your health. It could lead to dire consequences."

   "If I..." starts the man, then pauses, his eyes falling back down.

   But he gathers his words and continues.

  "If this were to continue," he says, "how long would I have?"

   "I hate to have that asked, as you might try to not change, but maybe four years. Change needs to take place now," replies the doctor.

   The man nods, understanding negligence reborn as consequences.

   "I want to improve...my health," says the man wearily, "but, my occupation has me stretched thinner than gold leaf."

   "I received that from the message earlier this week," says the doctor as he types on the computer at the same desk, opening said message, "and I've devised a few ideas for a change."

   "Naturally, the first idea to improve yourself would be to possibly lessen your work. You could retire. You're young and successful, and that means you won't need to struggle for bread," says the doctor.

   "I will not relinquish my job. I have toiled too much for it," says the man firmly, but still slouched: the sunk coin in mind.

   "I thought you would say that. My next idea is to limit the amount of work you have," says the doctor, "you are employed seven days a week, and you take no vacations, even during the holidays. Can you not limit your worktime and workload?"

   "I hardly doubt I could achieve my work with lessened time," says the man grimly.

   "Well," says the doctor, almost at his own defeat of profession, "my last idea is to find an assistant."

   "An assistant won't be able to help," says the man, assuredly, "I have to do my work alone."

   "That routine and regime might have worked for you in the past, but it's starting to fail now," says the doctor, "and if you were to have an assistant, a secretary, or even a helper, the workload would lessen, and surely you wouldn't have as much to toil over."

   "I still don't think I like the idea of somebody doing part of my job," says the man.

   "Is it pride?"

   "It is fear. I fear that there won't be anyone out there who can achieve as much as me."

   "You have to lower you standards. They're chocking the life out of you," says the doctor.

   "I know they are. But my hands are held behind my back," says the man.

   "It is up to you to decide what you treasure. Ambition, or your future."

   The man sits and ponders, the mind of his that raised an empire stumped at the crossroads of faith, as all men are. The compass broken and the horizon clouded, storm and dust around and the hail harsh. An answer as prominent as heaven in hell.

   "You are sure of the four years?" he asks, pondering still, but his foot raised and chin poised in a direction.

   "I am certain."

   The foot moves more, and the elements shift around in the air.

   "Then," says the man, deciding, "I will find an assistant."

   Has a bolt rained down from heaven?