So I've misplaced my cellphone today. Its in my apartment because I haven't left the front door today until about 15 minutes ago for a breath of less steamy air, which is apparently all thats available in my apartment. I noticed that the cellphone was misplaced sometime this afternoon, it is now 10:18 PM. I remember waking and unplugging the little cretin from the charger, resurrecting the mini-christ from the death that disconnected me from my friend the night before. I remember reading the text sent by that friend asking about my disappearance, as I went stealth, a crucified silence. I got up at about 11:12 AM, my first trip to the bathroom was met by failure as it was occupied so I visited my niece in another room before heading back to the direction of the living room and distracting myself in some form of thought. I may or may not have relocated my copy of the novel I'm currently reading; this may or may not be a clue to reproduce that mysterious strand of memory that is giggling in some dark recess of cranium.
I'm upset. Much less at the possibility of a missed call or text or desire to, myself, text or call someone. I'm sure there were no calls as I'm sure there is no one I'm in any particular need of contacting. In the case that I would really worry about either, I could easily email or use the house phone. No, the possibility of a missed contact doesn't do much for my disposition. My issue is more about not being able to find a piece of personal property. It is my cellphone, my possession and I should know where it is, it should be in my memory which is also of my disposal to recall such information. Not being capable to do so, exhibits within me, a paranoid manifestation of self-consciousness and lack of self-control; not being able to know where your possessions are, and not being able to establish an adequate mean for retrieving these belongings.
A vexation that has taxed me all throughout the day under a scorning sun that has dismissed a sky of clouds and a ground of shade. At the end of my thinning tether with no more success than the night has had against the heat the sun left behind, I have finally decided to write about it. How frustrating to be played into a puzzle one can't ignore? For I must find my phone, especially since its misplaced location is so limited. It could only be in the apartment from which I, and the others who were approximately about at the time of the victim's disappearance, have not left. Its a simple enough crime with only a few likely suspects, that I have thoroughly interrogated with both hands and eyes, both who wore trench coats and hats with a shared, antiseptic, cold, film noir wit. However, to no avail. My room, the bathroom, and my mother's bedroom are these suspects, and apparently, I am Inspector Clousseau.
I've become tired of searching the same areas over, and all the more so angry at the discouraging result this strategy is so hurriedly committed to repeat. Regardless of my stubborn inclination to review these re-searched areas to obtain a fresh look that may now be less attached emotionally than earlier when the incident occurred, these areas insist on offering me no success. Apparently things remain missing in the same places from which they were missing, regardless of how mad you are or aren't.