The Hidden Chamber

May my days not blend together into the tapestry of a stranger who does not even know himself.

Robert steps into his apartment after the conclusion of his second shift at the freight yard. He works security. Friday night is already in progress. The city hums with light car horns, Latino music, and the occasional shouts. Conversations proceed from the floor below as a family spanning three generations crack open piss beer and play dominos for quarters. Cigarette smoke stains the wind. 

Robert slips off his boots readily with laces dangling untied, as he makes his way over to the sink. The rushing water faucet spews slightly dingy water smelling of chlorine that he splashes on his face. Roberts nearly black hair is wetted and forms spiky protrusions which look much like some anime comic if you close both your eyes. He feels spent. 

Pulling out a small cardboard coffin from his jacket pocket, Robert slides out a single shuttle filled with the leaves of a Turkish tobacco blend. He doesn't even smoke really. Not until recently anyway. No, but Robert needs to lean on something tonight. He aims to feel something hard to describe, contentment possibly is the closest word, for living in this dirty apartment with another night he will spend alone. If he does it right, this could be filed away into the recesses of his mind under nostalgic gold leafing. After all, he has the whole place to himself. He's in the thick of solitude with work not requiring him back until Sunday night!

Robert reaches for a small pan and takes a mildewy sponge, running it across the face of scratched Teflon, knocking away bits of burned egg he fried this morning. A rinse and its back on the stove, where he lights up a blue forest of carolers all encircled by the clicking pilot. The pan quickly evaporates all the water. He thought of making another few eggs and changed his mind. Reaching for his pot, he filled it with water and grabbed a couple packages of chicken ramen from the cupboard above his stove. He replaces the pan for the pot and begins boiling the water. Reaching into a small white fridge with rusty staining, a proper patina for Robert's sense of design, and pulls out some butter and the half gallon of whole milk he kept in there. Robert also grabbed out his eggs. 

With the water boiling, he floated the ramen and let them cook until the color changed from white to yellow noodles. In went the butter, and the seasoning. He cracked two eggs and finalized it with the milk. Robert really had a strange taste in his ramen, but he came by it honestly. His dad did the same thing.

Robert had time to reflect while living in the humble conditions he presently existed within. Mentally it was something he learned, that truly it was better to have freedom in one's mind and be a prisoner in the physical, than for the opposing conditions being the reality. All hard things can ultimately serve you though, because it allows the chance to taste everything and understand. Right now was Robert's time. This was his time to learn what it means to savor. 

The soul of a man has depths he doesn't know of. Stark power of the imagination can lend supportive help in many critical troubles. Like being jailed, or worse, stuck in a hospital for the mentally ill. Robert wouldn't know about the second thing, but his best friend certainly would. Life can really disappoint a sentimental soul, but that same pair of eyes can find valuable meaning in the most mundane shadows of memories. Distant ghost ships crisscross the seas between the heart and the hidden man, sometimes caring cargo of feelings, sensations for trade, cherished treasures known only to him.

That's what he is going to make this night about. It's one more evening where he bides his time, draws breath into his lungs, and prepares himself further. Robert knows vexation. Depression, nihilism sometimes, loneliness, and a feeling that's akin to the infestation all over the leaves of his inner foliage, insects eating the tree that is his. He fights spoilage of the good things of life. A lot of people don't understand. The ones who do most of the time try so hard to fend off the mites themselves that they aren't even willing to get that deep with him. So Robert fights this one almost always alone.

That's why he savors things. It's the best defense against titanic attacks, if he stores up as much goodness on the shelves of his secret library. This is very important for him to do.

Robert finished his food while sitting at his little table, haphazardly covered in mail, laundry, and dirty dishes. He stands and gathers all dishes from everywhere he spots some. He clears out the sink and rinses the walls, then plugs it and runs hot water with six squirts of soap where he disturbs the water to create suds. Then he places all the silverware in, and by his system all the plates, then the cups, after which he begins washing them, spending 45 minutes to get them all done. He sets them in his strainer, wipes off his stove, his counters, and wrings the sponge out while he notices a small cockroach skitter below his kitchen window. Thankfully the bugs aren't very numerous.

Robert turns on an old tv by the dial. He doesn't need the antiquated junker, but kind of likes it. Robert's reminded of his grandmothers house before she passed, where he grew up in part. His antenna gets three channels pretty good, and its only on for ambience anyway. He plops onto the couch still clothed, but after a half hour, Robert kicks off his pants. He pulls a light blanket over himself. He made plans to stay up a bit tonight and do something, but now, he's just too tired. His mind quickly wanders, spawning random nonsensible scenarios which so commonly preclude his sleep. Robert is a lucid dreamer though, so he takes notice of these things while many others can't see them in action. He drifts asleep, the city gets sleepy too, and the night dribbles away in the hourglass of unconscious misplacement of its own whereabouts.