Futile

fu·tile

[ˈfyo͞od(ə)l]

adjective

futile (adjective)

1. incapable of producing any useful result; pointless:

   "a futile attempt to keep fans from mounting the stage"

Origin

mid 16th century: from Latin futilis ‘leaky, futile’, apparently from fundere ‘pour’.

--From Oxford Languages

fu·tile

[ˈfyo͞od(ə)l]

adjective

futile (adjective)

1. incapable of producing any useful result; pointless:

   "a futile attempt to keep fans from mounting the stage"

Origin

mid 16th century: from Latin futilis ‘leaky, futile’, apparently from fundere ‘pour’.

--From Oxford Languages

The morning rain drops from a dirty gray sky. A coating of water makes the dull pavement shiny. Its surface shivers and sways, disturbed by the steady rhythm of tiny droplets. The air smells cool and damp, the scents of earth and ozone mix, as if a lightning strike broke the sky. The rain pelts bruised skin and drips into open wounds, stinging as it goes. A shiver works down her spine. There is something unsettled in the air. Something wanting. The rain continues to pelt her head and soaks through her clothing. Turning, she studies her surroundings, wishing there was another choice. The house beckons her to come closer. She won't, can't; the house is alive, it pulses in her second sight, violet and blue. Red and indigo, and each thump a heartbeat which threatens to drive her to madness. These are her choices, it's not always raining, but the house, or the garden, or the circular drive that curls around before the house and to the side of the garden are the extent of her world. Enter the house and face the darkness. Enter the garden and face a nightmare.

There is no logic here, and logic is what she seeks every waking moment, a way to make sense of this space. There is nothing here, just the house with its mysteriously stocked kitchen, and handless clocks on the wall. The grandfather clock in the foyer has no pendulum or hands to mark the hours, but the sound of it ticking away, and the thrum of its chime fill the house, every hour, on the hour.

In the garden, it does not always rain; sometimes the sun beats down and the flowers bloom, turning eager heads to the warm rays. The flowers remain the same, the same roses, the same daisies, the same everything. Green, and violet, and pink, and purple. Beautiful flowers, but it's the sameness, the unchanging that leaves her in a state of confusion. What was the point. If she dies, she wakes again to do it over again if she survives, and sleep claims her she awakes on another day, different then the ones before, but the same in to many ways.

"I'm not positive if this captures the futile aspect of her reality, but I think it does, to be trapped, or think you are trapped in a lonely world seems pretty futile to me."

--Delora 3/6/25