'Fuck' – his only appropriate mental response towards his action. What an idiot he sometimes is. What a clumsy creature. Not normally tho. Normally he is one of the careful ones, especially when he is operating and maintaining his gear. That's his life source. His income. His existence. And more. His pleasure. His joy. His life.
'Fuck' – again the scream in his head filled his whole silent home with angry vibration. How could that happened? 'Fuck' – he needs this shit player tomorrow. 'Fuck' – why couldn't he be more thoughtful. 'Fuck' – what's the fucking point of it?
This one tiny little moment. This one tiny little moment of carelessness and foolishness. And it has happened – already. He still sees the glass tipping over. In slow motion. How his elbow slightly hits the thin glass rim, while he was turning around. The starting motion of the glass out of the corner of his eyes. The moment when the glass looses the balance, his hand hasty fasted towards it. Just to miss it right in the moment, when the first drops of sticky fruit juice are dripping onto the record player. Than the action speeds up. The juice spills everywhere. The glass clinks and clashes, Smashes on the floor. His whole body in motion. Running. Grabbing the first piece of cloth he can find. The try to prevent the juice of entering the insight of the record player. His try to avoid worse, trying to minimize the mess. 'Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!' His eyes tear up widely. His hands moving. Dapping with the piece of cloth, an old worn our shirt, restlessness over the recorder.
The white greyish shirt gets coloured with staines of orange and yellow. The layer of juice of the recorder starts slowly to vanish into the shirt. The wiping seems to take ages. The surface is sticky and damp. He presses the turn-on button. Crackling murmur. Like you are searching for a radio channel. The crackling arises just to turn on its highest screaming peek into silence. The recorder is broken. 'FUCK!'
He is frustrated, mad, angry, furious, sad and helpless. What to do? There is nothing he can think of, how to get this bloody thing running again. For sure not today. 'FUCK!' The only thing he wants now is not bothering anymore. He doesn't want to see the player anymore. Energetic he jumps up, takes the advise outside on the sandy ground next to his entry. He needs music. Something he can distract himself with. 'Fuck' the day is done. He won't do anything anymore today.
Weeks later he comes home from a busy day at school. Almost immediately he recognized the ant parade walking with him through the gate, like it is the most natural and normal thing to for those ants. They welcoming him home with a big red ant carpet, leading him like a long waited for family member, who finally comes home. The ants have his fully attention. His eyes follow with curious interest this orderly spectacle of nature.
His eyes follow. His body moves. Along the narrow concrete path, up the step onto the squared terrace, around the chaotic placed camping chairs, towards his flat door, just to turn right in front of it into the narrow sandy and empty flower bed. The homestead of his broken recorder. The homestead of his new neighbours. He grins. 'At least this bloody dam thing has any purpose at all.' What incredible intelligent creatures those ants are. It was, that they wanted to show him what they are doing. They welcomed him with the purpose of letting him see their actions.
Time passes and it becomes quite normal for him, living next door to those busy and bustling insects.
In times of rest he loved it to watch their zealous hustles and bustles. For him, even if it seems like a bunch of uncoordinated, chaotic creatures running around, he knows they all are on their way to fulfil in accurate order their own small little task. Every single ant knows exactly what do to and where to go. One pulsating crowd of consciousness. Intelligent creatures. Intelligent nature. It's a joyful pleasure for him, watching, observing, almost studying them and their behaviour.
In times of hurry he forgets about his little friends. Passing them without recognizing them. On his own duties, they become unimportant, normal. Not special at all. Ants, still. Insects of nature, nothing more.
Than one day, after a very busy week with full of his own duties, he finally has a day off, looking forward to sit outside, enjoying the sun and the spectacular drives of his tiny friends and neighbours. But they are no more ants crawling and scuttling and running around. Not even one single lonely lost disorientated ant is at their homestead. The recorder looks abandoned and quit. A feeling of sadness arises in him, just to get shortly overwhelmed with the urgent drive to test the recording player. Before he is realizing for himself whats happening, he finds him self back in his flat, the recorder already plugged in, pressing the play button.
'The fate is sealed, without the light. Starting to look, like I'll be here all night. I don't know where I am, in my own home. The familiars taken on another form. And this growing worry, ain't the best. Thinking that I never should of left my bed. I better move quick, best I sleep on the floor. I am half awake doing the zombie walk.'
It's playing. The recorder is playing. What an old song of his. He must laugh so much. Happy and thankful for the great work the ants have done.