Hanging in there

There was still enough turmoil in me to erupt like an angry volcano, so I decided to fly out of the country and check into a nice little hotel.

The problem with humans is that they get bored easily; they need to stay active, they need things to stay fresh for them to be entertained.

As a writer you don’t really look for that type of dynamism in your life; you embrace stability when it comes because you know it’s something hard to come by to begin with.

Here, let me make it clear that I am speaking strictly as a human (and not as a writer or an accomplished writer or even an aspiring writer) and go ahead and say I felt I needed the change.

Running away was always one of my strongest skills and this time was not going to be any different.

So yeah, I checked in to the place and went into my room. A nice classic room on the fifth floor with a decent bed and a nice carpeted floor to go with it.

There was even a small mini-fridge and a TV.

I went to the far end of the room and peered out of the window.

There was nothing but the city lights. Not a single pedestrian on the street.

It was 8 p.m. and already the place seemed darker than it was.

I was covered in shrills and all of a sudden it seemed the room walls were closing in on me.

The damn place was getting smaller and smaller, shrinking with every passing second. And I was at the center of it.

I was at the center of this desert of solitude and calm and stillness and lifelessness.

There was a wooden desk in the room. I noticed a piece of paper and a pen on it.

I grabbed the pen and started writing. I can’t really remember what it was that I wrote that night. Probably something about darkness and the human condition and the suffering of the heart and the longing for home.

Then I felt I needed a drink. I opened the mini-fridge and found a couple of cans of coke and a big bottle of juice.

I went over to the phone and phoned room service.

‘This is room service,’ a male voice answered.
‘Do you guys serve any alcohol?’
‘I’m sorry sir, alcohol is prohibited in this hotel.’
‘Can’t you make an exception?’
‘I’m sorry sir. Hotel policy.’

I hung up. I sat on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It was a nice comfortable bed and the ceiling wasn’t too bad either. It looked a little pale though. Maybe it needed a drink just as much as I did.

I got up and looked outside my small window again. Still no movement on the streets. Where were all the people in this fucking country?

Didn’t they have anywhere to go?

I decided I was meant to be alone – in my country, in my home, in a foreign country in the middle of nowhere, in my hotel room. Maybe I was the only person in the hotel. Well, except for the fucking room service guy.

I sat back on my desk chair and started writing again:
You are never truly alone…there is always one thing that never deserts you…

And then I started to think about that thing. Was it people? Memories? Thoughts? Soul? Heart? Faith? Politics?

No. it was art. A strange, subdued form of art.

It showed up and worked its way into you like black magic. You didn’t quite understand it but you knew it was there and it was working on you.

I stopped writing, took off my clothes and went to bed.

Tomorrow was another day alone. Tomorrow was another day of magic.



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