Slowly, I
woke to the sound of thunder echoing in the distance, flashes of pale white
lightning lit my face through the skylight, telling me of another salvo. A quick glance
out the window (roof?) told me nothing; the rain had misted the rooftops. Where
I could be was anyone's guess; Paris, Milan, Copenhagen; I couldn't remember
anymore.
All I knew was that I was home.
I flipped the light switch, and the space of
my small, brick walled apartment flooded with warmth.
It's more of an converted attic,
really, a small one at that, on top of an eight story building. It was quite
homely; just a small bed, bathroom, and kitchenette (I had to send the laundry
downstairs). The only other furniture I kept was a small cafe table for two,
(which I would move out to the small balcony on nice days) and two tasteful
folding chairs; not that I had anyone over, really; the second chair was really
nice to have as an ad-hoc nightstand/ coffee table for my coat, hat, or
whatever I brought home.
I got up, still dressed in the
clothes from the night before, and started coffee.
It was fun-sized I'd
like to think;
If you could ever call a jail-cell fun
I mixed myself my Saturday
favorite; Eastern twilight. It was good for picking me up, keeping me up, and
the occasional broken heart.
A dash of this, two drops of
that in the maker, a quarter shot of this, and a whiff of that on top: I grabbed
each bottle by instinct, hardly bothering to read the labels. Sure, one wrong
ingredient, or an overdose of something is near lethal; I'm used to it.
Maybe this time...a
fleeting thought tells me
Five long minutes passed, and
the strong scent of Vietnamese roast filled the room, with subtle hints of
something else. Setting down the plunger, the grinds danced around in the dark, swirling
Ichor, before settling at the bottom of the glass and brass press. A thick, tan
layer of crema shows itself, as a testament of quality. As it flows into my
mug, already prepared with spice and flavoring, the light shows me my creation's
true color; a deep earthy red.
Perfect
I stir it all in and take a
long, drawn out sip; sweet, savory melted gold in my mouth, running across my
tongue, smooth like a silk sheet, unraveling each flavor as it falls gently
down my throat. I immediately reached for a glass of water, to taste my coffee
as the Viennese do.
Vienna, perhaps that's
where I am
Such curiosities aside, I put
about orienting thoughts; my little home-cell. It's becoming more and more like
that really. I never really "left" the house; I keep to a routine
day-in, day-out, at the same place, around the same time, doing similar things
for so long. I would even visit someone every now and then.
Some people hate that sort of
thing; a so-called lack of spontaneity that fails to excite.
But I loved it
(My heart's pounding twice as
fast as usual, a surge of blood rushes to my head; I take another long sip,
washed down with water.
The coffee's finally
kicking in...maybe this time)
I loved my routine
It was the security I guess,
knowing vaguely what was going to happen tomorrow. It was about the people too;
I got to know them day to day. For the longest time, I would know what bugged
them, what they needed; their very nature when we had time to talk. And I
cherished them for being who they were. Most of them hardly did anything for me,
others I hardly knew (like the artists who created my favorite works, seeing
them at work afterhours every now and then; or the misguided young woman who I
bought a rose for on St. Valentine's day); If you cannot be with those you
love, love those you are with. The few who I did know, I loved the most. Those
who cared for me, I loved even more still.
It was such
people that made my confinement bearable, loveable almost.
But when fate ripped them from my arms, I was truly
imprisoned
(Beads of sweat drip from my
brow as a heat wave comes over me, as my heart hammers away; yet another long
sip, washed down with water
So far, so
good...maybe this time)
Slowly, steadily, as blood seeps
from an open wound, familiar faces started to disappear. Some moved away, for one reason or another, some
got too busy, but most followed the natural progression of modern society, and
I would be left to my routine, too timid, too gentle to take a risk. Often I
would see familiar faces in strangers; catch a glimpse of long gone figures still at
their old routines. To smell familiar perfume, turing to see one I loved most,
but seeing only thin air and empty faces.
(my heart pounds faster and
faster again, as my vision becomes almost unbearably sharp, thoughts race
across my head in a sea whispers, but one shouts...maybe this time. I finish my mug)
Those I loved the most were
closest to my heart; to keep their memory from being washed away by the tides
of time, I tied them to little strings, memoranda and memorabilia, that keep me
to routine. Old notes passed in class, a song, a paper or poem; each tied close
to a memory, a trigger to nostalgia sharper than any blade, but a warmth worth
any pain. Routine is littered with them.
Sometimes you get so attached to
something, it hurts too much to rip it off. It's like a piece of steel healed inside
you; removing it would only leave a gaping wound. Life becomes a prison when it
encompasses and traps you with its limits. Home becomes a prison, if your heart
is elsewhere. Even without chains, any limit, any four walls, really, can be a
prison, so long as you keep to them.
(Blood starts to roar in my ears
as my heart reaches its limits; the four walls of my little cell grow higher
and higher, as my whispering thoughts are replaced by silent screams that echo
through my soul, as my vision fades to white...this time.)
I awake to a room, a faint taste
of coffee on my lips, with four painted walls; papers to my left and right. A
clock reads two am. Notes passed in class four years passed in my right hand,
trigger fond memories. The song playing on my Ipod, strong emotion. Flood then
the memory, nostalgia, and tears.
Tired,
I closed my eyes again.
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