He passed his time with cigarettes and watching the silhouettes of curvy women as they undressed in the dim light of his room; the eyes of a stranger and a kiss he never remembers, fleeting conversations that never conveyed any meaning to him on a deeper sense; gossip as mundane as his days.
Tonight would be just like any other night; another night of staying in and drinking and smoking. But he decided he would be alone. He had decided not to spend his meager sum left in his pocket for another woman. Tonight, he embraced solitude and welcomed it cordially.
He was a writer, but not anymore. His doubts clouded over his thoughts, he was never a writer. Rejections came around like the countless women, and success was ever so seldom. Writing replaced the hollow left by his last divorce; writing rekindled the fire for wanting a taste of life again.
But his failures disheartened him. He now felt like he had lost his identity. He reminisced about his teenage days—when he was sixteen he was struggling to carve out an identity for himself instead of taking up his father’s company and acquiring the social status that came along with it. What had all the endurance finally led to? Was he going to be forever deprived of a ‘defining moment’ of himself?
He was laughing. In a long time, he hadn’t laughed. But it was more out of mockery than out of joy.
He had given up his hobby. His notebooks disgusted him. His muse was now his enemy. He no longer derived euphoria from writing but it became a reminder of everything he had failed to achieve. The disparity that came along with it disabled him from holding on to his ambitions. They had all toppled like a collapsing domino, and only fragments were left behind.
He didn’t want yet another day of paying for company that only made him feel emptier. He was tired of the dank apartment, filled with crumpled papers; papers that had imbibed stories but failed to be something concrete. Tonight, would be his last night.
Does a person with nothing, have anything to lose?