I Think

Now I have very little hope left. Before, I used to search, I moved around all the time. I was waiting for something. What? I didn’t know. But I thought that life could be different than what it was, in other words, nothing. Life should be something, and I waited for this something to come, I looked for it.

Now I think there is nothing to wait for, so I stay in my room, sitting on my chair, I don’t do anything.

I think there is a life outside but in this life nothing happens. Nothing for me.

Perhaps things happen for other people, it’s possible. That is no longer of interest to me.

I am sitting on a chair, at home. I dream a little, not really. What could I dream about? I sit here, that’s it. I can’t say that I am all right, I don’t stay there for my own wellbeing, quite the opposite.

I think that it’s no good sitting here, and that I will eventually have to get up, later. I feel a vague unease, sitting here doing nothing for hours, maybe days, at a time, I’ve no idea. But I can’t find any reason to get up to do anything at all. I simply cannot see anything I could possibly do.

Of course, I could tidy up a bit, do a bit of cleaning, I could do that. My place is dirty, neglected.

I should at least get up to open the window, it smells smoky, rotten, stale in here.

That doesn’t bother me. Or it bothers me a bit, but not enough for me to get up. I’m used to these smells, I don’t notice them, I only think what if, by chance, someone came in . . .

But there is no “someone.”

No one comes in.

To do something at least, I start reading the newspaper which has been lying on the table for a while, since I bought it. I don’t bother picking it up, of course. I leave it lying there on the table, I read it from where I am, but nothing comes into my head. So I don’t bother anymore.

In any case, I know that on the other page of the paper there is a young man, not too young, just like me, reading the same paper in a round, sunken bath; he is looking at the advertisements, the stock-market prices, very relaxed, a fine whiskey within arm’s reach on the side of the bath. He looks handsome, lively, intelligent, he has his finger on the pulse.

When I think about this image I have to get up and I go and vomit in my stupid non-sunken sink which is attached to the kitchen wall. And everything that comes out of me blocks this sink with misfortune.

I am amazed at the sight of this gunge, which seems to be twice as much as I could have possibly eaten in the last twenty-four hours. As I look at this horrible stuff, I feel a new wave of nausea and I rush out of the kitchen.

I go out into the street to forget. I walk around like everyone else, but there is nothing in the streets, just people, shops, nothing else.

Because of my blocked sink I don’t want to return home, I don’t want to walk either, so I stop on the pavement, with my back to a large shop, I watch the people go in and come out and I think that those coming out should stay inside, that those going in should stay outside, that would save a lot of tiredness and moving around.

That would be a good piece of advice to give them, but they wouldn’t listen to me. So I say nothing, I don’t move, I am not cold here, in the entrance, I take advantage of the warmth coming from the shop through the constantly opened doors and I feel almost as good as before, when I was sitting in my room.