To be explained in the physical is almost possible. Allister’s mind flew. That is how he described it. His soul was old, that is what he believed. His soul was one that did not die, could not be trampled, remained waiting patiently to give Allister a moment to bounce freely, a moment deceived in camouflage only by that smirk. The old soul created pigments in his rods and cones, painted the world in colors that Allister could never truly relate to someone else. They were the pigments of Allister. New shapes took form. People sometimes were pulled so that perhaps a particular boss was stretched until he wedged into the ceiling, his feet into the floor-and though bosses were by make mobile, this one now merely served as a bearer of pants, socks, and shoes. And even while projects piled up and wages remained the same, he still could not contain the giddiness. His stationary had just opened a vaudeville house at Allister’s desk and Allister had a backstage pass. As Allister sat, listening to his ruler shoot rapid-fire wittisisms, he could not tell what amused him more-his ruler’s jokes or how furiously and stubbornly his lead pencil attempted to prepare for the upcoming soft shoe number, struggling to force tap shoes onto its absence of feet.
This is not to say that Allister was not a competent worker for he did work diligently and obediently at whatever he may be doing at the time. And when he had finished, when he had packed up his various instruments used, when he had wiped his brow, and headed home he could feel it. He could feel his mind soar. Could feel that there were others like him, that there was an order waiting to happen. That some were satisfied, to be sure, in working jobs and being told what to do and some looked satisfied, to also be sure, but that they merely worked to dream. And, though they now obediently drilled holes and bagged groceries, their smirks betrayed them, too. That in them bled rebellion, dripped dreams.