completely unnamed Novel/notsureyet

right..... um just sort of joined this site i'm not sure how it works or if theres any in-rules i should be following, but heres the beginning to something i've written, i geuss this just seem like the place to post it.

soleil awoke.

orbs of light surrounded him and a dark blue sky covered the horizon. his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could see the clouds below like a cotten wool canapy thrown over a tired world. the lights and sounds of the city below were all but extinguished and his heart felt free. at first, it was hard to tell what he was feeling. it felt like his soul was bubbling or perhaps overflowing with a strange something-or-other. he could see so far tonight above the clouds, all of the stars glistened far away, but somehow they seemed closer tonight almost as if they could be touched. he realised that this feeling, this unexplainable freedom he felt, was happiness.

in the darkness and up so very high, Soleil quickly realized that he could see farther than anyone else had before, the first human to be able to see the extreme glory of the heavens without the confines of steel and machinery. Deus Ex Mechanicum had no law here, he was the true machine, and out of his eyes bore the beauty of god. it all seemed so obvious, all that had been said, researched and discovered was meaningless, for he knew it all. not the technical details of course, but the purpose... thats what was important. perhaps he had indeed achieved enlightenment, a moment in time when he as a human being could finally understand the mysteries of the universe and its miraculous simplicity. he finally understood that there is no complex plan or stifeling predetermined boundaries, everything finally appeared as it is. surely a mind would be thrown into summersaults of confused thoughts by the possibility of infinity, but not soleil's. He was above infinity, he was non-relative, a wheel that wasn't required to turn, or maybe he just didn't want too. maybe he was turning the other way entirely. he could understand it all so easily. once you strip away the cosmetic reality that he had for so long known he realised that this infinity he was witnessing is only apparent unmasked. his mind reel at that concept, he felt overwhelmed, the sight of this naked universe he was experiencing was too much and he began to feel exauhsted, not confused, but he needed to lie down, to rest and process this information, so he lay his head on a cloud and thought to himself, 'just five more minutes'.

the alarm clock beside soleil's bed rang BRRRRRIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG! the noise pierced the quiet room like a patiants heart monitor flatlining and he awoke with the same urgency. soleil never liked to be early, it seemed like wasted time to turn up before you begin just to impress your boss, he liked his sleep.

he never slept until well into the night, he had a turbulent mind spinning with a thousand ideas. his head was a maelstrom of worry, not just for himself but the world he was in. people would say that he thinks to much or that his mind was never on subject, but it was on the subject. soleil spent most days considering what people thought about and then worrying about them later. he did not do this for his own sake, he was not self centered, in fact far from it. soleil liked to look after people, he did not have their 'best interests' at heart, in fact their interests did not bother him, he was more concerned with the things that people so often leave at the wayside. those little dispensible things like loyalty and love. soleil couldn't help but see these things, he was by emotional association, pathetic. when some terrible crime against humanity happens people cry out for justice, people are disgusted, but a person doesn,t care, a person can get on with their lives, a person can ignore such discrepancies. this was what aleinated him. he was not a person.

the clock read half past eight, soleil knew it was ten minutes fast and that it would take him about ten minutes to slap on some toast and get dressed, showers were for the weak, he would arrive at work smelling wonderfully natural, totally rested and completely sated. the rest of his co-workers would appear fantastically groomed and smell terrific, they would also be subject to carrying monumentous ammounts of coffee in huge expensive mugs and endless pastry products in an effort to fuel themselves before, god forbid, they would actually have to perform. soleil stumbled down the stairs lethargically. he had lived in this flat for, how long now? a couple years at least, maybe more, it didn't matter. what mattered was his toaster, it had fallen ill recently and he needed to use the grill, this threw him tremendously off kilter and within seconds he was minutes late. grabbing his rough leather jacket and cursing the cliche of toast between his teeth he threw himself out of the door and into the street.

london always seemed larger in the morning, and today in particular it seemed enourmous, every turn he made brought him too an infinity of people and issues, which nobody wants to deal with. the beggar on the sidewalk, the roadside stands and the police investigations. he walked concerned amongst the millions of souls trying to saddle the same 'i must go to work for i am productive' bandwagon as he was. he constantly noticed the indifference with which people considered these problems. sometimes, he was no different, its true, and walking down this bitter street on this particularily bitter day, he felt no need to acknowledge them. but then a thought struck him, what if he did? silly of course. these thing are not meant to be noticed. poverty is a product of success as is crime and greed, these things go hand in hand with the world chosen by people just like Soleil. so he did not care. the beauty of being part of this annonymous 'danse macabre' is that you have no accountability to all those who are not running with you. he stepped over the police lines and outstretched palms into his office, and with that his morning was done. he did however, notice a sign held up by a strung out wacko' crouching by the corner of his office building. he thought nothing of it, naturally some sort of madness brought to reality through felt pens, but he read it regardless, more out of politeness than anything. it was there when he began his day, and it would be there when he finished. not a desire or a plea or even a warning. just a statement. it read "what does your dictionary say about you?"

probably tremedously pretentious and full of typos but and critique would be welcome.