Nowhere: Prologue

He left his room in chaos. Means it is difficult when one enters incomprehensible situation. It is like two sharp edges, touching either side of the neck. Then he walked away, away from familiar space, into something more random and more chaotic, resembling what he is right now.
He thought about drinking. But there is not any sponser who can accompany him at this moment. And, it is really inefficient to drink when you have less money to spend. You need to consume more alcohol when you drink by your own money. A constant worry of out of pocket expenditure slows the poisoning and hence delays journey into terrains of self full-filling narratives, written in first person and decorated with many heartbreaking phrases. He passed in front of bar. There are few drinking inside and same steady face waiters serving them with unsaid pity on their face. He thought positive points of his decision, this is self optimistic mechanism he has with him from childhood. 'Morning will be better if I don't drink now. cheap alcohol causes headaches and expensive causes delayed headache accompanied with financial crisis.' Suddenly, thought of morning caused some sort of aches in some unidentified spot of his mind. Do I really want it till morning? And what sort of night is needed to have one plane vanilla morning? He entered his whirlpools again, sinking into mud of his own cause and effect mechanisms. Conversations started echoing in his head, he started begging and crying for understanding him, mirage which he hasn't understood yet, he explained and got counter explained. He felt tired in middle of the flowing road, sun setting over west, clouds steady in the sky and weaving colors into different contours of illusions, another day passed into piles of unidentified lost days, he cried, tears whose meaning vanished into unnamed sad violet color bordering the horizon.
One mother was teaching her daughter to ride the cycle. As usual in his recent childhood, being exceptional he escaped childhood when it usually happens and he is living it now, he remembered his mother by slight reference. Choked, he kept looking at mother-daughter. He didn't remember anything, any incidence when mother taught him anything, except ordering him to eat all vegetables, keeping shoes in shoe rack and forgetting to keep her own and punishing him for not behaving modestly at her friend's house. Yet, he thought about her as woman of substance and kept choking. Tears have some amplifying mechanism. They kept excavating you deep and some unknown pains grip you and you feel them so familiar.
He felt like sleeping for a while. Where? Thats an old problem. Finding a place to sleep. A place where one can sleep without any feeling of entity called 'others'. Others are dangerous. They just change you. If you look at yourself, by being yourself, it is totally different than what you will look to yourself when you see yourself by becoming others. He has fear about others, especially those who can uproot all superstitions he has kept about himself and make himself unreflected in any mirror of references. Though becoming conscious is gift, he cannot afford it. Somebody said so long back....
Well, he thought, where to sleep. He took bus, against the crowd so that it will be silent, quiet and can provide sort of undisturbed corner to nourish his grief. He took one book out of his bag, Line reads, 'I have and have been committing mistakes.I felt like having chickens inside me. They kept hatching and multiplying themselves. And now they have occupied all the space so that there is no way to keep memories of right thing I did.' Fuck off!! He kept book in his hand and looked outside the window, from edges of flyover to last silver line of the day sky and thought about the line. He is no different that what that line is. So true as like many other things book tell. Only thing is they tell it when things happen first. Theorizing life depends on the next turn life takes. Turn alters and so the theory.
Yet his question of where to sleep for the night is unresolved. He purchased ticket to roam through the city. Night is falling, through yellow sodium vepors, through shines of malls, through scarce breeze of coastal wind and through words, like patternless drums, ringing in his mind. Memories, books, movies, some said and unsaid conversations and deluding silence of meaning... He is the bus, going nowhere...