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He sat at the foot of the bed drinking his espresso. He was enjoying his stay in the nicest room this particular bower offered. Despite all the creature comforts, sleep had evaded him again and he was taking in his surroundings. His window gave him a beautiful view of the city, which was thriving even at 3am. The only eyesore in his sight was a bright sign advertising Halliburton’s latest achievement. The room was filled with chunky furniture, all with comfort in mind. Placed on the nightstand was a small vase containing a single tulip. He had never realized how beautiful that single flower could be. Elegant in its simplicity and such a unique difference from your standard romance rose.



He listened to the sounds coming through his open window. The sound of tires on pavement reminded him of a luge as it rockets down an icy slope. Through the din of the traffic he could make out the music of a minstrel wandering up the street. It was not a tune he recognized. Not that he was supposed to, his mystery musician was only playing to entertain himself. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard a shot from a pistol but determined it was probably nothing more than a car backfiring.



He had to remind himself he was no longer in the land where jihad was a way of life. He had fought long and hard to move from those areas. He was a man of peace, a man who wanted to author his own life story. He was longing to create his own images in words. It was only very recently he was offered a life where telling one’s story was kosher. It was also the reason sleep seemed out of reach so often.



He would spend most of the day in front of his desk writing furiously. He would break every few hours for a meal and a stroll. He would walk through the park and observe everyone around him. The children playing who seemed more attached to their nannies than their parents. The elderly couples who held hands as they made their way slowly along. The new age hippies sitting against the trees using words like groovy and thinking they really had all the answers. He would watch the ducks slowly drift across the pond knowing just under the surface they were paddling like mad. It was during these times he would regain his purpose, regain his confidence, and regain his madness.



To many years he’d been trapped behind a desk. He was the best nuncio in his country, but he longed for more. Chained to his desk by endless paperwork he would dream of a different life. Caged in a country ravaged with war he would dare to ponder a different existence. Finally the pressure and stress of his job and his life became too much and he was lost to his own fantasies. And that’s where they found him, glassy eyed and mumbling, lost to the reality around him.



So yes he stares out a window taking in his surroundings but, the window is located on the fourth floor of the best mental institution in the country. His strolls are within the walls of the compound. And it was a gunshot he heard in the distance, for he never left his country. He only left it in his mind.



Fm 6-12-08

COMMENTS

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birra
13:02 Jun 17 2008

Ooo... good story!



Other people really need to start visiting your profile more!

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birra
13:03 Jun 17 2008

Or..er...your journal. This IS your journal...



..yeah...



...it's early, and the coffee is still brewing.



*sigh*

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