In A Hotel Room On The Coast

She fades in and out.

So I've been away for 2 weeks now, in a place that is not Victoria, nor is it remotely phantasmagorical. Except for maybe this electrical pylon. The black smudges are roosting vultures, 40 of them or so. Maybe this counts? It's all I got.

Perception, Not Necessarily Truth

Days spent packing all my worldly goods into a storage space across town, the place seems like a home away from home. The rows of silent, sun-bleached buildings seem to mirror my internal loneliness. Occasionally the wind rattles a lock or a leaf, but otherwise there is nothing.

The sun is so bright it washes out everything. The blue paint is peeling. Little chips of blue flake off onto the concrete. I keep remembering the place as looking a little better than it does. If this is what my loneliness would look like, then it should look a little better. It's loneliness, but it doesn't feel so bad. At least among these silent rows, there is momentary peace.

The End

Suddenly, my time in this place is at an end. It wasn't long ago that I thought I'd never make it out. Now I'm about to go back the way I came. Almost. I came here with a lot of hope. Things were looking up then, but it didn't last. The despair is like the humidity and the pollution - always present, always oppressive. It's hard to breathe here. It's also hard to leave. Isolation and low wages make an effective trap. Of those who manage to go, far more are running away in desperation than running toward a better opportunity. Like most of my friends before me, I'm one of the former. Still, anyone who lives in a place so long must have some attachments. If nothing else, it's familiar. You know the best angle of sunlight at which time of day. You have your favorite route for walking, or the corner of the bookstore you like best. You find a certain comfort in the habits of your neighbors.

 In places like these, beauty is indeed relative. You must pay attention to notice it leaking through the cracks in the sidewalk or in the jumbled words of a schizophrenic man. Beauty which must be searched for is that much more valuable. But...today is the last time for many of these things. They'll continue to exist, yes, but without me. Now we tie up loose ends the best we can, retrace our daily steps knowing that this won't be happening again. What was ordinary unexpectedly becomes poignant. Tomorrow, I'll never see this house again. At least, not from where I sit tonight.

 

It hasn't been much, but it's all I've had for years. Sometimes, even prisoners are afraid when it's time to be freed.

Hopscotch