He looked out his apartment window and thought, what is life but a waste of time? You’re not in my arms. I would feel complete if I could share what I’m doing with you. But I’m not, so I’m half empty. And in days like these, there’s no romanticizing longing. It just sucks.
He got up from his bed and went into the kitchen. He prepared his leftover meal from last night and microwaved it. He walked towards his bed with dinner in his hands and turned on the TV. He skipped through the channels. There was nothing exciting on. He left it at some sports that didn’t interest him and watched it while he ate before flipping through some more channels. News. Shopping. Drama. Comedy. He kept flipping, then turned it off. He grabbed his phone and browsed through pictures of some vacant chicks he had swiped right a few weeks ago. Feeling crappier, he set that aside too.
He finished his dinner and walked back into the kitchen. He stacked his plate atop a dozen dirty dishes from previous nights. He went into the bathroom to rinse and looked at himself in the mirror. Tired eyes, saggy skin and unshaven face. He speculated a couple of white hairs and the fact that he may be balding. Apathetically, he switched off the lights and walked out. Sitting at the edge of his bed, he rested his face on his hands and sat in silence. There was no TV yapping away, no music, no sound coming from the fan. Everything was dead. He rubbed his face and looked at his rough, withered hands. Dry and chapped. Bitter and anxious. Confined and mad. The silent room began to scream, and his temples began to throb. With his heart racing and sweat about to sprout, he panicked and got up. He put on his jacket and locked the door behind him. He was out of there.
He pulled out his cigarette and walked down the street that night as the breeze combed through his hair and as the air cooled off his face. Bright lights numbed his brain and he closed his eyes. There were beggars pleading for money and drunkards shouting like hoodlums. It was noise that he wanted after all. It was the caress of the wind, the lure of the lights. He drew his cigarette deep. It was her breath in his lungs. It made him walk onwards, as he died a little more.