There is disease like quality about a closed room. When I say closed, I mean robbed off all light and noise. A ceiling fan turns wretchedly stuck to its rhythm, cursed to creak as days run into years. The virtue of close quartered apartments, is harder to lose as a scrape of any kind on the floor above, sends a screech down your ceiling and walls, reminding you of how non-alone your self inflicted loneliness is.
Your laptop blares blue light, as your thumb flirts with your phone and the only thing that is getting your undivided attention, is the bed. You are stuck to it, like true love’s first kiss is stuck to the human delirium. First Rate Glue. Now and then, your eyes flick around the unchanged room and the room closes in further, making it harder to escape the prison, I like to call ” coma comfort”. You give up too. Its easier to let the semi darkness engulf you whole than to move. Moving takes so much character and right now, you have the character of a cardboard cut out lying forgotten at the back of an abandoned house. None.
But, life catches up to you. The evening prayer calls, resounding through the walls, people start coming and going into your room and one of them switches on the light. Ah, the ruin. You have been jerked out of the coma, by a very rude cure, called time. Time to bid goodbye to your infatuation with doing nothing and, oh the floor is so cold against your toes.
Five minutes later, you stand in front of the mirror, water running down your face.