The Unsolvable Riddle
He stood at the very edge of the clock tower's balcony, the tip of his shoes standing on air as they peeked over the ledge to face the busy streets below….No. Perhaps balcony wasn't the right word to describe where he was. There was no balustrade to prevent him from falling (jumping) off the tower and landing (crashing) onto some poor schmuck's car; just a small wall that surrounded the perimeter, its stature just barely tall enough to prevent a five-month old kitten from leaping over. No; a more appropriate description for this extension of concrete floor would be invitation. If anything, the barrier was more like a threshold to an invisible door; ignore it if you want to stay, cross it if you want to leave.
The man decided to stay for the time being.
The wind that flicked his green jacket and massaged his face was exceptionally gentle, so much so that he regarded the unbiased force of nature as a gesture of affection, the most he had experienced in many a year. He absently took off his green bowler hat so that the hand of the wind could tease his bangs and brush its fingers through his hair. He would have liked to close his eyes to fully embrace these sensations, to close his eyes and pretend that the pressure that soothed his face belonged to the hand of someone who cared, but his gaze remained focused on the skyscrapers and speckles of light ahead and below him.
In a few minutes, they would be gone forever, consumed in fire by his hand (or rather, by another's if things went according to plan), so he figured he might as well enjoy the view and relish the obliviousness of the city; indulging in the latter had always cheered him up in the past.
Yet, his face remained passive, denied of confidence or excitement, uncertainty or fear. The look in his eyes was contemplative but distant, the green of the irises glazed with exhaustion.
There was no happiness. Just the crushing ache of emptiness and the sharp pangs of his racing thoughts…
The average human being is capable of producing approximately 60,000 thoughts on an average day. That's 14,400 thoughts generated on a regular hour, 240 by each common minute, and about 4 to 18 thoughts every hackneyed, un-extraordinary second.
For the average human being.
His gaze drifted downward as he raised his hand to the middle of his chest, looking at the open palm that was masked by a purple leather glove.
All things considered, the matter is a moot point; it would be impossible to garner precise statistics since the mind is incapable of not thinking, despite the stupidity of the individual in question, or the idiocy of mankind in general. What it really comes down to is how a thought is defined: whether it's coherent or clarifying, complete or controlled. Whether it is triggered or accumulated, whether it occurs with our consent…or goes beyond all awareness.
His open hand quickly hardened into a fist before releasing a silent sigh, shutting his eyes and gently shaking his head. After a moment, his eyelids and eyebrows slightly creased as he turned his head to look at the door behind him, a good fifty feet away from where he was standing.
It was 11:55 p.m. He should have been here by now.
What of those images and words that stir deep within the subconscious, or the ones that stay there…forever? Are they to be taken into account?
Dropping his fist to his side, the man stepped down from the "wall". He took a few steps in the direction of the door, camouflaged within the giant timepiece engrained into the tower. The circle of roman numerals was a concrete black (like the Knight) that stood out boldly against the clock's white body. As he stepped closer, he noticed how his body became thinly outlined with a soft illumination, a result of the light emitted from the giant dial. He observed this with faint fascination, turning his hand and bowler hat a few times to see if this phenomenon remained consistent.
It was typical for a clock to illuminate figures, so why had he assumed he would be any different?
(Because this has not been an average day, and I am by no means the average human being.)
"I am not a number," the man mumbled to himself in whispered defiance. "I am not a statistic."
Boom!
The man jumped in surprise as the door shook with an ominous sound, one that resonated in his ears and echoed to his core. It was the sound of something on the other side, trying to break down the door… something big.
With a fleeting facial gesture that would be regarded as a twitch more than a smile, the man hastened toward the mini wall to stand on it once against, his back deliberately turned to the door as if the growing
BOOM!
was as average as the air he breathed.
For a moment, as the sound of the door became more angry and determined, he found himself wishing that he was still illuminated in the light of time. He found himself wishing he could turn back the clock, even though the hands were out of his reach. He found himself wishing that insomnia hadn't been kept him awake for the past six days, that he could have gotten some damn sleep and taken refuge in a pleasant dream.
I'm not sure if a dream can be considered a thought, or if a memory can be classified as such. Regardless of the subject, a thought is very real, whereas a memory… if it feels like a dream…
He wished he could argue with Joker that riddles were better than jokes, to play chess with Jonathan and smile at Harley's laughter. He wished that he had had the courage to introduce himself to Zatanna, to tell her that he believed in magic because she made him love her. He wished he could erase the grave that bore his mother's name. He wished his father had suffered a crueler death.
I've often found that…one can be easily confused for the other.
The Riddler placed the bowler hat on his head a second before the door burst off its hinges (leaving a dark hole in the clock from which a monstrous shadow emerged), but only a nanosecond after he wished for the end of Gotham City.
Such was the nature of thoughts.
.
.
.
.
A/N: As Riddler himself noted, it would be near impossible to ascertain the average number of thoughts within the human population. I had done some research on the subject but I wouldn't take those numbers seriously lol.
I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again, though I would much rather be writing for fun than writing for college homework. I have been dying for ages to post something on Fanfiction, and have taken longer with plucking up the courage to do so. I promise though that this won't be consumed by Unfinished Oblivion…he's eaten up way too many stories already.
Reviews and helpful criticism is welcome; flames are not.