He sits. One leg bent, the other outstretched, as if reaching for the doorway, persuading the rest of his body to follow. But no. Still, he sits, glassy eyes so grey but always intriguing to the curious stranger. It's morning. Fuzzy music plays elegantly in the background from the cassette player. He bought it for ten dollars at a car boot sale a few weeks back- when life seemed to be sufficient. When he didn't seem to think about where he was going, or what he was doing, or wasn't missing the smiles from yesterday.
He sits. The sole of his left foot is sensitive to the cold flooring. But no. Still, he sits, the delicate cigarette conducting pretty smoke trails into the air. The light comes through the window in a grey tint; it's early. It feels like he's the only person alive in the world, aside from the whispers of the breeze that slithers in through the gap between the window's wooden frame and the ledge beneath it. These whispers, these long sighs of dainty morning chill, these elegant currents against the ratty, knitted curtain, stained with time. They remind him of life, of people, of philosophy and dreams. Romance, adventure, accomplishment. So many things we all desire- he moves his stale eyes onto the fridge magnets. He had these things, he saw it all. And now what? He's on the kitchen floor at four in the morning.
He sits. Head bowed vaguely as if surrendering to the power of the emptiness, in this place, this apartment which belongs to a person he used to know. He wants to find them again. But no. Still, he sits, his heart beating slowly, placidly, as if nothing in the world could influence his cold serenity at this moment. All he is doing is immersing his soul in this fragile loneliness. Yet, he is not lonely to an extent of sadness. He feels... nothing. Nothing but gentleness, and reflection.
Where is everyone going?
Is anybody scared?
This soul has become numb to fear.
He sits. Finally, showing some sign of life, he raises his limp right hand up to his full lips and seals them around the butt of his fag; sucking in, filling his lung with the ironic pleasure, and then releasing it again. He wants to quit - he knows he should. But no. Still, he sits. Favouring this odd solitude. In this kitchen. Cups, plates and cutlery overflow the sink. The remains of what was once a succulent, satisfying Chinese takeout covers the white counter by the gloomy window. Frozen, stiff, drying of flavour and health. Just like this life.
Will this man rise from the kitchen floor? No one else does. We all sit, staring, gazing at the nothingness and pretending we are fulfilling our purposes.
He sits. The smoke dies away in the air until, no longer, can it be seen. The man brings his messy head back and rests it against the cupboard door behind him, in correspondence to how he feel inside- so tired, so languid, yet he would prefer to have more energy and enthusiasm. But no. Still, he sits, eyes slowly shutting to block out all visual of this crooked place. A sigh. One of those sighs which can mean nothing, but everything, an entire universe of questions, answers, emotions and statements, all in one. But no. Still, he sits, listening to the haunting melody that he can only afford.
This is his life. He knows he has done his best. Straining every muscle. Sweating every drop. Neglecting his heart, his desires, and also treating them. Time stops for no one. He knows his days are dropping.
He has no reason to move.
So. Still, he sits.
And waits-
To finally live again.