a bubble

It was a perfect bubble. Not quite round, taut with hints of translucence. It did not threaten to burst or grow out of proportion, implode or disappear. It quite simply hung around. A nice insipid bubble with a slight hint of indeterminate color. He decided to like it.

There are many colors that we all see. Some we own, others come and go with the seasons. Some are artificially created, like the naturally prepared orange juice with preservative Y and chemical X that he liked to drink. Others appear almost on whim, like the colors of his dreams and fears. Then there are red blue green and yellow. And black with or without white. In the course of his experiments he created many bubbles using all the colors. There were red bubbles and bluegreenyellow bubbles. The white bubbles were a tad difficult to create and the black ones seemed to pop out in between so that jotting down his results was becoming difficult. Others like magenta, lilac and amber were not technically colors. They were shades. He gave up creating shade bubbles after the first year since they tended to float up and merge with the other shades all around his room. By the time he was eight he decided that the only proper shape a bubble could ever take was round. After that he concentrated on trying to make exclusively round bubbles. There was the round square, the round line and the round round. In his ninth year he chanced upon the almost round. By the time he was ten he had despaired of ever making the perfect bubble. Then two months into post bubble retirement it popped out in a freak accident. The perfect bubble.

Though it was hard to tear his eyes away from his greatest achievement, he realized that he must chronicle this moment. Taking out his log he opened it to a blank page where he wrote the date. Today. Neatly dividing the page into two on one side he put down the technical detail. On the other he described in completeness all the various attributes of his perfect bubble. Job done, he tucked the log book away into his side drawer and pulled a sheet over his head. How long he took to drift into sleep is not known. What we do know is that the bubble continued to float. That was its purpose.

Many years after today when bubbles have escaped our collective consciousness there will be an academic convention. All the great minds of that time will attend. They will bring their ideas and be identified by their arguments. Afterward they will adjourn for lunch. He will also be called upon to attend. He will nod politely when congratulated and particularly enjoy the rare steak. By that time the world would have advanced beyond our belief. He will be feted for his contributions toward bringing about a complete society. Ideals of peace, harmony and prosperity will have been achieved through his dedicated work. He will receive a purple sash and an inscribed coin. Later, out in the parking lot he will look at the world around him. He will stare it for some length. Almost round it will be, not threatening to burst or grow out of proportion, implode or disappear. A nice uniform world without the slightest hint of color. Perfect.

Memoirs 1

“Dear Watson
I have reached the end of the roads. There is nobody here.. It is a world without crime, my old friend because there is no one to commit crime against. My many detractors would try to disprove me by saying that there is always the self. They would construct trivial examples of me hitting myself needlessly over the head with a stone. “That is crime” they would say. But were it to be a crime, who could convict me? Is it not against the very grain of jurisprudence that a person who is guilty is made to condemn himself?

There are no robbers who hurl their devious plots at my sharpened wit, no murderers who look to purport heinous sin unless it be the wind which gives me no quarter. The ground beneath my feet is hard and it rises and falls in uneven furrows and ridges. The soil is never distinctive and my feet cannot leave their mark on it. There is no exoticism; no sense of awe, no adventure dwells here at the end of all roads. I have no witnesses bar the soul less sky and yet I feel the land is sinister. I can see shapes that close in on me, some ferocious like the shadows of snarling hounds, yet others whose very breath gives shape to the wind and faces that I have seen pass away into another world.

As I write to you I cringe to think that the end of all activity is upon me. You have seen patients like these, who cannot live a life that is already spent. They are but a shadow of themselves and in shadow they belong.. Life my constant friend is at an end.”

Note(Watson): Holmes spent a further two days in his room until he finally came out complaining of stale air. It is clear that its effect (the drug) wanes exponentially.

- From” Holmes on cocaine”- Chapter xvii,
A detective’s story- John Hamish Watson