Congress of One
A congregation stands amidst a nebulous void, debating the intricacies of errant thought. Alighting this darkness are distant stars, constellations of thought. Concepts, people, places, some are individual stars that flicker alone or shine brightly. Others are entire galaxies, and more than one is currently colliding with--
“Nobody cares how we work,” scoffs a voice from the ether.
He could be immaculately dressed, if half a care was given for his attire. Forever alone--as if he could need anyone else--his presence blocks the view of a specific galaxy. He wears a tattered vest because it’s comfortable. It keeps his things more readily at hand, and he hates things in the pockets of his khakis. Despite his stand between others and specific memories, he’s still wearing an exact copy of her fedora.
“The topic is social acceptability, not methodology,” continued the Voice of Realism, “Idiot.”
“A valid, if blatantly argumentative, point,” chimed in another.
“Agreed,” agreed a second.
“Seconded,” seconded a third.
“Wait,” queried a fourth voice, “to which are we agreeing?”
“Pardon?” asked yet another, “Explain your question.”
“Are we agreeing to the validity of the point or its argumentative tone?”
A brief pause was answered with a resounding, “Yes.” by a coterie of lab coats. They were surrounded by laboratory equipment and drawing boards. Alchemists and Scientists called Reason, Logic, Point, Counterpoint, Counter-counterpoint, and so forth. The true challenge would be getting their names right.
“Anyway,” sighed an elderly gentleman with a long beard, a longer staff, and a hooded robe that changed colors, depending on the mood. It was currently a neutral grey.
“One day,” said a robed gentleman with a shaved head, seated in the lotus position beside the old man, “they will all agree upon something, at the same time.”
“May the gods of every faith preserve us, and prevent that day,” chuckled the old man.
“Bored, now,” grumbled an impishly sized, near infantile facsimile of a human being, seated in a particularly nasty nebula.
Dark red skin, wings, and pointed tail all seemed to twitch with irritation. The inhuman glow from its eyes flitted from being to being, considering its next moves. A sneer of contempt exposed a single, yellow fang.
“You’re always bored,” hissed a dead voice, rasping like crumpling ashes.
Clad in a half frozen suit, the skeletal source of those words took a moment to adjust its tie. Skeletal fingers carefully, patiently took purchase. New frost coated the garment, spreading from the freezing, blue flames it had for skin.
“Boobs!” whispered the skittish geek in the corner.
“Oh, shut up,” snapped the united voices of Self-Loathing, Vexation, and Hate.
“What are we doing, again?” mumbled the old wizard while the science team was distracted by the geek in the corner.
Meanwhile…
“Hi!” exclaimed the barista in false cheer, “What can I get ya?”
“Um,” I stutter, trying to remember where I am and what I’m doing, “I’ll have…”
Back in the brain…
“We’re ordering coffee?” grumbled Self-Loathing, “We forgot that we were ordering coffee. Really?”
“Just order what we always order,” echoed the icy sigh of Hatred, “We have things to do.”
“You and your plans,” impishly sneered Vexation.
“What do we always order, again?” asked someone in a lab coat.
“Oh, come on!” boomed a minotaur of steel as it thunderously took center stage. Flames spilled forth from its open jaws as it roared, “It’s not that hard!”
“Hard!” yelped the geek in the corner, “Boobs!”
In reality…
While the voices in my head shouted obscenities at each other, I took a breath, and tried to focus on the menu. Why was I suddenly angry? The barista was cute. And, working behind a register and serving coffee isn't a job I remember fondly. But, I always get the same thing, anyway. Unless there’s seasonal choices. Those are tasty--
Stop!
Focus.
“... I’ll have a Venti Triple Mocha.”