On a friday night like this, there’s nothing you can think of doing. You could be anywhere in the world, sleeping with the most beautiful women imaginable. You could be in America, or maybe Venice. Smoking cigarettes and drinking champagne as the gondolas pass by your side. The bars alive with romantic souls, the air humid and the night knowing no end. All the cities and towns, buzzing with opportunity and life. Every single soul and all hopes and dreams, drunk on possibility. Living for the moment. Swirling like the breeze and merging with the stars in the endless sky above.
This could be happening right now.
Yet somehow it doesn’t interest me.
Looking out the window at the fading rooftops of my hometown, I feel no sense of attachment to anything. I’m not numb, just lacking in a certain something. Maybe it’s one of my turns, or perhaps a lack of vitamins. Some kind of deficiency. Or how about I’m just a lonely soul, always destined to be on the outside of life, forever watching from afar as things pass on by without me. That’s melodramatic I know, but that’s just how it is. It doesn’t make me sad though, in fact, I’ve always been attracted to this kind of life. The struggling artist. The romantic vision of painters and writers, desperately wanting to belong, yet always pushing themselves away from those around them. It’s a form of self harm. Self harming for the soul. It’s in our blood. In the way we are made. Needing to fuel our art with suffering and bullshit. Needing all the pretension we can feed upon. All the pity and pain, to make ourselves look pretty and vain.
Sipping a beer in my darkened room, she sleeps as the television blurts out some crime drama. The town’s getting busy on the horizon. All those insects dancing to the sound of sounds. The aching sex, the lust and desire flashing into each and every one of their eyes. I’m envious, yet I don’t care. I’m after something more, yet I don’t know what it is. A way of living, or a state of being. I’m not entirely sure. But I do know I haven’t found it yet, and that is for sure.
Always searching, for something that’s never there. Unattainable truth. Elusive like ghosts.
Masturbation. Sex. It bores me like everything else. Drinking bores me, as do the books I read. Closing my eyes and disappearing into thought, I walk the footsteps of my past. Places that were once real. People that used to have meaning. I don’t try changing things, I just revisit and breathe in the lives I once lived. It makes me smile, and it makes me feel sadder than ever. Standing up to look out the window, I gaze at those familiar lights on the horizon and feel a sense of strangeness that can never be described. At least not by I. There’s nothing out there that I’ve not yet seen, nor wish to see. The magic I long for won’t be found tonight on those lonely streets, or in the bars and clubs that hold so many hungry hearts. It’s the same old shit, and yet it still fills me with the strangest sensation.
I can’t quite describe it, but there’s something missing. Something I’ve overlooked.
Leaving her and going into the backroom, I close the door behind me and light a cigarette. Momentarily making me dizzy, I lean against the windowsill and blow out mouthfuls of smoke. Finishing off my beer, I sit down and wonder about all the unknown galaxies that are dying so far away above my head. All those planets that will never be known. Light years and interstellar space, so out of reach and distant. All the mysteries that will never be unraveled. I curse the fact that I wasn’t born a thousand years from now. When to travel to the stars would surely be so simply, for that would make me truly happy I know.
Maybe I’ll watch 2001: A Space Odyssey tomorrow whilst drinking wine.
Not tonight though. Tonight, I’ll just wish myself away into the great big abyss. Not red though. Red is sexual.