No Direction

walking alone by mashat

One more cup of tea and I will go on.

The Wind whisper out there, carrying the sand and the rest of this godforsaken desert. I drum my fingers over the gross desk, wood without any paint who can hide the termite trail… You know, I could be now in anywhere, in some five stars restaurant, or any luxury nightclub with a Whisky in my hand. I could have anything: houses, cars, friends and girlfriends. Everything disposable, one night stand, like any portion of anything they give to you on a plane. I could have anything I want, but I preferred stay here, on a roadside bar in the middle of the desert, near to a canyon in the end of the world.

Not that I did not like the luxury life I had. On the contrary. I always have the best of everything: schools, cloths, cars and the apartment in the center of the city who anyone would give his life to have. I was not alone, I had my guinea pig, and the poor sample of the things I insist in get off of my mind, but that was always there. My friends from the university came to visit me sometimes, to have fun with alcohol and games, or not rare studying something useless… Oh! This was the dream of many youngsters have, but I was not satisfied, some part of me was empty, I miss something, that gap in my chest that nothing can fill, at least not for long.

Sometimes the window of my room was really tempting. Left to me fight against the impulse to not throw me the glass off, fly, fell the air through my body, fly to a place far away from here. Maybe was in the last floor is not enough. I want to be a free spirit, like the characters from the books I read looking for a way for my restless soul, the movies I saw to fled from any crisis, or just to pass the time assuage the boredom. I want to go out, be like the characters, walk to nowhere like an unknown.

And here I am.

I left everything behind, create wings and flew away from my apartment like in my thoughts. Maybe someone fell my lost, maybe not, I just want to think that is better like this, while the smoke from my cigarette guide my thoughts away, like the memory of a whisky glass. The old bartender gave me my coffee, whit his butcher’s apron and his afternoon beard, I pay with more than the necessary, and refuse the rest. I drink with one take, one more sigh and I get up, with the sound of the old wood, and the sound off the glass in the table, and I take some good steps and the door open with a distant and familiar clang, cross the threshold, the cigarette now forgotten, the beaten jacquet, the ‘don’t be’ state who guide me and the thought that if I was a different guy, I don’t know how I will be.

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