|
“Whoever leads a solitary life and yet now and then wants to attach himself somewhere, whoever, according to changes in the time of day, the weather, the state of business and the like, suddenly wishes to see any arm at all to which he might cling--he will not be able to manage for long without a window looking on to the street” – Franz Kafka, “The Street Window.” There wasn’t any view from his room. Two stories above an empty street that looked off, that led off into nothing. Alone on a mattress, midnight and on, he cried. Twisting around, pulling square blankets over himself a hundred times and each time they didn’t quite fit, didn’t quite keep him warm enough. He’d shiver. His stomach muscles would tense up; strain against his whole body as he sobbed. He’d sob... Sob until he had nothing left inside of him. Until all of his loneliness had overwhelmed him, stolen his energy, and left him dry. Exhausted, curled up into a tight ball, he’d finally begin to sleep. To dream... ...about his potential. His eyes would open, and in his mind he could see the beauty, the wonders of his world. His imagination would bend around; configure a plethora of shapes and colors he did not know, but was thirsty to watch, to see. Hundreds of permutations, variations of themes, ideas, concepts both absurd and consistent, both useful and useless would play themselves out inside of him, within him, gratifying his mindless satisfaction. His mind would project his lack, all that he did lack along the inner walls of his skull. Like a theater with only one seat with only one chair with only one single view without any relation without any perspective other than his own inner voice. He wouldn’t talk he’d only listen and the movies kept playing but he never spoke and he never made comment he’d only observe these things around him without participating in his life in this life in his own life his only life. Four walls. Confined inside of four cold, gray walls for three years. Days, weeks, months and now these years had passed and he hadn’t moved from his confines. He’d work listless jobs that he never kept for long, meet people that he didn’t like, share nothing of himself and his life with anyone. Just lock himself away, hurt and alone, dying slowly inside of four walls, and four cold, gray walls without any view of anything other than the insides of his atrophied imagination. His alarm shocked him into day, into another day. A day bright with windows, with opportunity... ...but his eyes were looking inward at the darkness and not towards the open sky, splendid and warm.
| 