I open my eyes only to find that the ceiling is still there. I can’t tell the time because the curtains are blocking any natural light from entering the room. Well, not really a room. More like a repository with a mattress but still, that’s the place where I keep my body safe at night. 

The pile of clothes is covering most of the floor surface, giving me one more reason to stay in bed. The room probably stinks of socks, farts and negative energy but I’ve been part of it for so long that it has no effect on me. I am in my underwear, stewing in my own sweat. Getting under the covers would make me sweat even more whilst staying uncovered is making me feel a little cold. Sometimes life just doesn’t give you a choice. 

Last night was fun. Went out with the boys, had a couple of drinks and engaged in some meaningless banter. I was in one of those moods where the success of my night was hanging on whether that one specific person would show up. That one specific person did show up.  

I want to think of it as our first date. It just happened to be that other people were invited too. Other than that, the whole night fitted the bill of a first date. Awkward glances, not many words exchanged and constant attempts to demystify each other’s body language formed the core of the whole experience. During the course of it all I was under an incomparable drug-like high. Once I got home, that feeling turned to doubt, confusion and despair.

What is it with human beings and their persistence with going after things that are just out of their reach?

After my last relationship I promised myself I would not make the first move ever again. We all wish to be chosen. For someone to pick us from the crowd, see beyond the obvious and fall in love with the things we haven’t even said.

Is it possible that some people are blessed to be chosen and the rest cursed with having to chose? 

I roll on my left shoulder. I’m not feeling sleepy, just void of intention and energy to pursue what the day has to offer. Maybe I am emotionally drained. Or maybe we should shoot everyone who uses the terms emotionally drained and emotional intelligence. Pricks.  

In one swift move I pick up my phone from the floor. I start typing a message, asking him how his night shaped up. That drug-like high feeling makes its appearance for a few seconds. I delete the message. Despair takes over. I slowly put the phone back down as if it’s a loaded gun. I sit on the bed breathing heavy. I open the drapes to let the sunshine in. It’s still night. The sun is not out yet. I go back to sleep.