Wish

He toyed with the idea sometimes. It was not entirely serious not entirely a joke either. It was more like a wish that he did not push hard enough. It seemed safer to keep it like that, as a wish lying dormant, lest it materialised to an outcome that did not please him. Still, he kept thinking, wishfully thinking and on and off, that there was a book in him. It'd be a collection of sentences with no plot or common purpose, a succession of thoughts, recollections, opinions, of little interest to acquire significance. It'd be hopefully written in a somewhat attractive prose in an uncooperative language which kept remaining alien to him. He would write about his phobias and passions, which were plenty, and about his distaste of the world around him. It would describe his deepest feelings to varying degrees of exposure. If he was tired he wouldn't mind to write it down. As today, when he was so, tired, extremely tired. After a full day of weary routine at his crappy new appointment he set out for the hotel he stayed in. He should start searching for a flat. When he got off the train, he saw a little boy crying amidst the frenzy of a hurried crowd which flooded the platforms and the entire station. That's something he can't stand, little boys crying. It always made him feel real sad, spontaneously sad. He did nothing. He couldn't react. He just stood where he was, staring at the boy's face, filled with tears, while his mother dragged him bluntly by his arm towards the exit door. And it was already dark outside, and darkness still makes him feel a little uneasy, especially when he's alone. He figured that something, sometimes, doesn't quite work properly. Yet he didn't want to think further about it, did he? It was just the darkness, and that boy crying, and being alone and feeling miserable. Altogether. All. Together.