Runaway across the sea

Chapter 1: Constant

In the sprawling streets of the Big Apple, stumping feet in power suits are in an endless marathon alongside the horns of yellow cabs tooting. Men swing their briefcases in simultaneous conduct for callus-earning mitts. Feminal socialites come out in their latest mode pelages to lionized social events. Toddlers commit learning their first brand names before the ABCs of the alphabet. One man is obtruding within this engrossed cosmopolitan lifestyle, be it somehow. Looking outside his window pane from a timeworn bachelor's pad, he garners a chair in his unkempt scullery beside a makeshift dryer of broken pipes catering to the westerlies. All the while, Winston contemplates of the life he should have succumbed. Consistently prodding and be reminded by conditions that never directed in line his favor; nor the straightforward decisions he would have resolved. The evening prior, and the many more nights before, the same fantasy lingers around his subconscious. He mutters exhaustively, "This deplorable gut...It never goes away.". It devours him inside out constantly. A sense of belonging he tries to identify but usually ends up in a deficit of sorts. He turns off his illumination nevertheless, and shuts his overcast eyes. Unbeknownst to him, he has conversations in his sleep. And in every single time, a whimper keeps one locution company; each dewdrop conveys a segmented story line. Nonetheless, all of them originate from one vital spring, from Winston's tapered sockets. They transcend chest wise; then furrows unto the dermis and eventually, towards a gradually adulterating flame deep inside him. It diminishes per passing twilight. His prolonging notion is that slumber was, is, and he speculates...will be the lone and permanent medicine for all-encompassing. As he continued contemplating, awhile sitting and faces another kitchen division and its battered floors, he sips a volume of his coffee. The alleged man tries to piece this jigsaw together; all the while, looking intently at a framed poster. His two wandering baby blues cross next over the extremity of his current room. Lateral to the egress, a storage area underneath the stairwell is presupposed to be for his bristles collection but houses a different set. A bundle brimming of clothes forgone by a decade stands as subordinate. Trousers with marked flares belowest the knee, dirtied whites and other tints of collared shirts, and a platform pair eerily similar to a mallet's head occupy this absurd carton. Nowadays, he is an established decrepit of a man. A disfigured one at that. Like the hackneyed adage of a sore thumb, he always protrude in a group setting he incorporates himself beside. He welcomes it and at the same time, his facade shows it; slightest of slaps towards his cheeks indicates it so. From the contagions of pigeons flying above up to the urbanite residents casually enjoying their chock-full day against a less than bright sunrise, it just flounders to give him any meaning. Peculiar amidst others' gazes, he used to prioritize his olfactory among other sensations. But that time has already honed in grime and soot. These days however, he is vague and monotonic. By now, Winston rather wears the routine uniform that is expected of him. Extended by layers upon layers of more clothing as the season's tide demands them. The annual equinox is wavering to its second half; in spite of this, this particular man remains the same. That as it may be, everyone assumes of Winston; though it feels more like a tangerine jumpsuit more than any other else. He swivels open and then closes the door knob behind on his apartment. Both sides of which are already worn out from this constant operation. Threading by his corridor, a couple from door 29 - they always execute extravagant parties. They toast to their libations, he passes them first. The old babushka lady from across the hall, she comes out from her egress decked of the same restrictions and the smell of cat pee accompanies her. He passes her second. Door 24 and its not-so-conventional family unit. A teenage son comes out wearing all shades of black. He cusses his nourishing machines that is his parents, who do not know what to do with him. They passed each other's guise and is of Winston's third encounter; and, many more detached individuals thereafter. People passing people day in and day out within this city but none really develops any emotional relations. After a little while, he jets out from an edifice that fuses in with the rest of the architecture on its block. Similar to sward of grass, they sprout in abundance all over the metropolis. But this is not the fodder crop he once knew and purposely, cared for. The grass here wither and it is coming soon. The year after, they will be from a different extraction. This realization drowns him out even more. Continuing on his marked path, all levels of noise reaches him. As what any downtown holds of such, for some unknown reason, he manages to hear small tropical birds chirping. The sea breeze also hymns to him. He gets interrupted however, when a fleeting car horns at him with its driver raising a fistful. He nearly got run over. Traffic, the urban sprawls and everything else in between are adding weight. Comparable to his doorknob, he too is already worn out. He is paper thin, about to get torn apart. He emanates air from himself; it eases him off this way. He continues on his day thereafter still.