Pattern Without Rhythm

To start, they weren’t really listening. Everything just seemed to fade out, their eyes were still open, but they weren’t really looking or seeing anything. They’re probably sitting down, but at this point they can barely tell. No one is talking to them, or if they are, they can’t hear them. The world was slightly hazy, like a city covered in a thin layer of early morning fog, with rainclouds on the horizon.
Of course they realize what’s happening, and try to open their eyes again, only to find them already open. The world snaps back into focus in an instant, and they need to shut something off again. Anything off again. No one is talking, everyone around them gazing but not truly looking at their computer screens. Typing away, a pattern without rhythm, rhyme, or reason. Keys clicking so loudly, as everyone follows this invisible force, something guiding them through these motions that have become unconscious for them, but hundreds of years ago would have been alien. These clicks punctuate these thoughts, small stakes tethering them to the real world, to the things that they need to get done, to what they are relied upon for.

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