“………….. most nights he could recall
oceans in the city
the myth of floods the
missing man in the room with a window
his eyes closed only in sleep…………”
Are you truly missing if no one misses you?
Don’t bother to answer; I know the answer; I got myself into this.
The room is about the size of a shipping container, and not one of those super-sized ones either, just a regular one. If this room were a shipping container, it would be painted a faded red with letters stencilled on it that only a dock worker would understand.
I don’t mind that this is a small room; I don’t take up much space. Mostly, I sit in this corner and stare at the sky though my only window. If it was positioned a little lower on the wall I could probably see the people in the street, but then again, that would mean that they could see me; don’t want that.
A thicker cushion would be nice, but the one I’m sitting on works well enough, as long as I fluff it up from time to time.
Speaking of time; it passes very slowly in this room.
When you are ‘missing’, and it wasn’t up to you, time is mixed with the terror of the unknown. When you are missing, and it was your choice, time is mixed with fear and regret.
I don’t want to get all ‘Zen’ on your arse; just saying.
If you ask most people [as long as you catch them at a good moment], they will tell you that all you need is a roof over your head, a bite to eat and someone to love. At the moment, I have two of those things, but I used to have all three.
My food comes from Mrs Wang’s Chinese kitchen on the corner of State and Wilson streets.
I knew Mrs Wang, back in the day, and she knows how to keep her mouth shut. Mind you; a closed mouth costs money and mine is rapidly running out. Mrs Wang leaves my food outside the door, that way she can say that she hasn’t seen me if anyone asks.
Mrs Wang could equivocate with the best of them.
The Spanish Inquisition would not have had a chance with Mrs Wang.
I prefer my own company, but one of the downsides of being on your own is that you begin to lose track of the passage of time. Not in a ‘twenty-four-hour’ sense but in a ‘days of the week’, ‘weeks in the month’ kind of way. It doesn’t really matter either way; I have to stay ‘lost’ for as long as possible, and when the money runs out we will find out.
For all, I know everyone I ever knew is dead. For all, I know I may already be dead. How do you find out when you are dead? They certainly didn’t teach me that at Catholic school.
I wonder if it is like getting an overdue notice for your electricity bill. “Dear Sir, we regret to inform you that you are no longer alive. We are sorry if this causes you any inconvenience. Could you please have your soul polished as soon as possible and don’t forget to report for a debriefing on your most recent life. Please note that if you were foolish enough to choose Earth for your most recent incarnation you are entitled to an additional weeks leave before having to report in. We understand that Rigal 5 is particularly good at this time of the universe. There are always spots open in the choir and tennis lessons are free for new arrivals.”
Maybe not, but being dead can’t be as bad as not knowing. I could ask Mrs Wang, but that would cost me. For the moment, being the missing man in a room with a window is my safest option, and besides, tomorrow it’s egg rolls as well as beef and black bean sauce.