SUMMARY: He can't help but go through this, everytime he has to visit.
A/N: Thanks for the alerts.
And thanks to the reviewer, D.G. Ling: They vary in length, but are nowhere close to the (short) length of the first part.
***I hope I haven't disappointed you all with this part.
Stages
One
Detachment
With far-away eyes and a frown—
He's sitting in a café, waiting for his drink to cool.
The area by the windows is deserted, for one reason or even more. The simplest explanation is the dreary atmosphere outside: To them it's horrid, with its rain and lack of sunlight and warmth.
The curtain of rain outside is only a suggestion, but a strong one, enough to deter most of the café's occupants from leaving this little haven. He scoffs, thinking of home (which, strangely, is just a vague imprint in his mind). Compared to that, this slight irregularity (it should be bright blue sky outside) is nothing.
There's some nameless tune playing through the speakers in the ceiling, and he can't bring himself to care one wit about it. It's trashy, teeny-bopper pop that's all technology and not enough substance. It has no meaning or feeling behind it, and will not leave a lasting imprint on this generation or the next.
What part of him is listening, the artist, despairs for the youth of today, and he tries to steer away from those thoughts. If he thinks about it, it will become all but impossible to start, and the cycle would simply begin again…A writer's art is a curse, he thinks, for it must come naturally or not at all.
The liquid has cooled, and his hand curls around the styrofoam cup, only wincing once at the old ache (the one that stop his hands from holding onto anything with ease...he can't imagine how he had gotten it) that accompanies the gesture.
The name of the place is not memorable, at least, because it is one of many in the area and he is just passing through, a common nomad in this city, searching, like so many, for some inspiration. New York is apparently where dreams are made (or is that Hollywood?), and America's The Land of Opportunity.
It seems full of promise, though nothing is different and more familiar than strange.
Honestly, he doesn't know why he has stayed (even if only for three days thus far) except for that small voice in his head that tells him he must. And he has learned not to ignore those voices (stay, stay, stay, or…), no matter how distinctly different from his consciousness they feel. Or the veiled memories they evoke (why don't you stay with me forever –?)
He takes a sip, staring out into the bleary city, and wonders if this is some sign he'll never escape from home, but turns away and broods quietly, thinking of his possible futures.
He muses over this, and then blinks for only a moment as he realizes there is nothing else but the future to think on. No past, no present, nothing...just the future and a blank something he cannot clearly recall.
Yet, this for some reason does not disturb him. In fact, it seems as if this is normal, and the murmurs in his mind agree in near-silent chorus. With that matter resolved, he decides to get on with finishing his tea.
He can't let it get cold, after all.