It was a dark, shabby room. A mediocre room. Nothing special about it. But it was his.

There was no effort on his part to make it his, but by definition and ownership it assumed some sort of a ‘feel’ for him, instead of the other way around. In its own way, it was a special room. A room which understands its owner’s whims, mood swings, and anger fits. No one visited him there. Its ‘special-ness’ was therefore an unwritten secret, an understanding, a term that owner and owned agreed upon since the first night.

One door, one large window, a humble window-sill, two small couches (more like chairs) worn out from the bottom, one coffee table in between, an old but beautifully eccentric desk, a huge bed (an outsider which does not fit the prospects of mediocrity, but one rotten tomato is bound to infect its fellow ripe ones in one closed box), and a small always-flooding bathroom. Aside from the disaster of the bathroom, his mediocre room is a haven for a guy like him. His sense of material loss exclusive to a few books, a laptop, a cellphone, and a few items of clothing, he lived a solitary self-sufficient life.

He is reading while secretly attempting to write one sentence or the other. Words always come, he thought. Sometimes he hears them, other times his pen dictates that which he does not voice and other times he does not know where the words come from. He believes in what Pablo Neruda once might have said, that words do not necessarily have to mean anything as long as they come, or something like that, he forgot. It sounds good though, so he sticks to it.

He lights a cigarette for the fun of watching it burn in his hand. That is one thing he never questions. But it is a force of habit, one which he seeks to get rid of, but not just yet. It seems to be a good enough reason, something to pass time with and kill insecure vulnerability when alone in public.

He is thinking of changing one word in the one sentence he managed to write, neatly, on a lousy piece of paper he found in his pocket. It was crumpled, damp, and burnt on the edges. He does not know how he managed to neatly transcribe the thought which had swished through his mind. He realized that he has started surprising himself recently. But he could not figure out why he was still unpublished.

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