The final entry.
I wake up in a strange place today, as on many other days. A clock ticks with a hollow sound, indicating the early hours of the morning. The room is in shambles, seeming more so because of morning’s denial. It feels as if someone decided to gather all the broken things in the world and call it home. That does explain why I am here. I hear dishes clattering somewhere near. I pick up the money, dress hastily and leave.
A cold draft hits me as soon as I step out, along with realization. I have no warm clothes on. In my profession, time and space are very mysterious concepts. You just float from one point to the other, and you have to find your peace in the chaos. When Shakespeare expressed how the pace of time differs for different people, he couldn’t have stated it better.
I am not going to my apparent home, not just yet. The sky is cloudy, densely so, ensconcing the city in a shadowy blanket. I love the grey streets, buildings, shacks. Grey is my favourite colour. Not because of the intrinsic darkness in my life, or my muses. It’s just the soft feel of it, almost like a touch. It reminds you that nothing in the world is purely good or evil, that it never is solely black or white. The idea is soothing, because you have come to terms with certain realities then. When that happens, you begin to see people for what they are and not what they seem.
I walk through the cobbled alleys, looking at the little huts and flats. People are already out, gathering water for their daily chores, shouting at their children. Stray dogs bark at me, a threat to their territory. People do not dare look at me directly, instead stealing looks out of the corner of their eyes, judging me silently, applying their twisted sense of morality to my fragile existence. It is so common now that I don’t even impart any attention to it, but it burns me within. I have greater prejudices to deal with, though.
My phone rings. Sometimes, I want to destroy this extension and fly off to somewhere unknown,
where I sleep in peace,
where I dream of stars,
where I walk on waves,
where I soak the sun,
where I feel the rain,
where I love.
There is no place for life here.
I have another job to fulfil today, the caller states. It is the usual. I have to feed another misplaced male ego, so that he can boast of his charm and appeal before an audience which already knows of the superficiality of the business. Later, I will have to fuel his insecurities with falsified promises and sugar-coated compliments.
It appalls me how no one seems to blink an eye towards the fact that it is he who has the lowest sense of self-worth and I who do an honest day’s work. I h ave long understood how stupid people are with their interpretations of money, power and class. Be as it may, work has its flaws, and I have to deal with it.
Sometimes, you are not sure of certain things. I reach the bridge which suspends over the river. There have been several occasions when I have considered the final leap, ending it all, finding my calm. I feel I am not brave enough, or I just may have found a way, understood grey. Here, now, I just feel the wind, chilly and numbing, and breathe deeply. It’s just another day, another normal day.
I finally decide to go back to my home, a dinghy little room in a forgotten building on a side-street. Before someone finds this piece, I might have already ceased to exist. But that doesn’t bother me, because my existence, as that of so many others, has never been acknowledged.
We exist as filth and dirt in the minds of the keepers of society.
We exist as derogatory stains on this civilized system.
We exist as juicy meat for perverted white-clad servants.
We exist as the forgotten ghosts of the sub-conscious.
It’s another day, another strange place, another set of eyes.