I sit in the corner of the square room, just next to the small wooden window with the mesh. There are dead flies caught in its holes. I am tired of waiting, but I cannot help but look out each time I hear the sound of a car or a boda boda. Waiting.
The sound coming from the television has become a chorus. The news readers have a certain tone they read with. It’s a song lately. Highs and lows. Yet detached, aloof, extremely robotic, even with the sentimentality at the end of a bad story.
My tea has gotten cold. I had ground some ginger, pressed some lemon and added honey to the hot water. The coughing was getting to me, however, I only realise thirty minutes later I haven’t touched the anti-flu brew. When thoughts are brewing in your mind, it is harder to focus on what is outside.
Thoughts are running rims in my head. Many questions might have answers, however, why is sometimes as blank as they can be. Why. Why it is hard to forget about this and just move on. Why I cannot just go out and forget all this chaos. Perhaps buy a drink, maybe it will set me free. Why I am so stuck to this window. Waiting.
Why. Why hope makes me a slave.
“Hope. It is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.”
Illogical conflict even for the great Architect.
Hope, because without it I am a slave of the darkness, embraced by it, taught by it, deluded by it. Even one ray of light, is as life.
I keep sitting, past the buzz of the television, till it fizzles out and all I can hear is the tick tock of my nameless wrist watch.
Waiting, hoping. Expecting to see light through the window.