Intruder

A noise. Ruffling, scrapping. Then nothing.

Another noise. This time louder, closer, as if just outside the door. I peeled open my sleepy eyes. 3am, an unearthly hour, on a frigid and dark, dark wintry night. As if this thing, whatever it was, read my thoughts, it stopped moving, and went away. So did the noise.

Barely into my sleep, another shuffle. This time, it sounded like something was scrapping against the wall. Scrapping and scratching. I opened my eyes wide, and lay there listening. Trees danced outside the window, and through the sliver of the window blinds, I could see a shadow dart quickly to one side. Beneath its steps, leaves, rustling, crunching.

Silently I crept out of bed, my heart still, my breathing edgy. I shivered, unsure whether from the cold or from the unknown I was about to face. Carefully, I leaned close to the window and peered out into an unforgiving darkness.

A dark forbodding figure, black from top to toe, with just a wave of white on its back. Thank goodness it had not noticed me yet. I sniffed the air, and it was simply cold and dry. I watched it, its back hunched, as it sneakily tiptoed toward the outer wall of my apartment, and there it started to scratch.

I tapped the window, and leisurely it just hunched its back and walked away, without even turning its head to look at me. Perhaps it was ashamed of having been caught in the act. Bravely, knowing that the window would protect me, I tapped loudly again. But there was no reaction For who knows how long it continued to loiter around as if it were the most normal thing to be doing outisde of someone's bedroom window at 3am.

I went back to bed. The scratching and rustling sounds continued. I actually started to feel sorry for it, freezing outside with no roof over its head, and having to resort to scavenging and stealings from sleeping strangers.

But however cold it may be outside, bringing a smelly skunk home is probably not the smartest thing to do.

Speed date

I've never been speeddating before. Until tonight.

Hesistant, I was, before entering the bar. I felt self conscious, and wondered what I would say to people. It was a nervous moment. Thankfully I had dragged a friend along, so I was at least not alone.

Eight o'clock came, and the bar crowded. All these strangers I did not know, except for a few I've met before from our weekly discussion group. Sat down, and were handed a piece of paper and a number. An empty table, which but the end of the evening, if you're lucky, you should have filled with people you've spoken to, and marked whether you want to date them or just be friends with.

Then the musical chairs game began. Every two minutes or so, you move around the bar, looking for someone interesting to sit down with and strike up a conversation.

I moved around, self-consciously, unsure if I could sit down. In total I met around four or five. They were so vague I don't even remember their names or who they were. Most were not interesting... simply just not my type. Too femme, too much of the stereotypical fashion-craving, shallow types that I just have little to say to. I felt like a geek, and old too, since most were undergrad first years who had just gotten out of the countryside, and were ready to party.

I left early, together with two friends, who found it too hot in the bar. But I suspect they found it as stiffling and stuffy as I did, so were bored, and wanted to leave. It was good, to leave, not alone, but with the same people I had originally come with. Then you know who true friends are.... even after having met these strangers for just a minute or two.

I guess that's why they call it speed dating. But where's the depth?

Creep

He reached over and touched me. A few strokes on my fingers, but it was enough to give me the shivers. I do not like to be touched. Especially by someone who looked like he has not bathed for a long, long time.

I would never think that just sitting there, just quietly reading as I waited for the metro on a Sunday morning would be an invitation to be touched by a complete stranger. It was as if the character in my novel, about ‘deformed’ people with ‘deformed’ lives, ‘deformed’ thoughts and acts, had somehow miraculously taken shape in front of me.

“Change?”

I shook my head, even though I did have some in my pocket. I refuse to give money to anyone who just begs, and does nothing else but beg. “Change? Cigarette?” he asked again, this time revealing his rotten and twisted teeth. His face, unshaven, and hair wild with dirt.

I said no firmly, and that I do not smoke. He looked at me, and grinned. A queer grin, and it was at that moment that his hand first reached out to touch my fingers. I pulled away, and just as he retracted his hand, he leaned over to stroke my cheek too.

Horror. Shock. Speechlessness.

“Please go away”, I eventually managed to say, perhaps too politely given what had just happened. What did just happen? It was too strange to comprehend… was there any meaning in it? The vagrant grinned away, and I returned with a grin too, but the kind of grin that quickly morphed into a look of disgust. A grin that taunted.

He left, and disappeared somewhere along the platform. But I was left sitting on the bench, feeling dirt, soiled, violated. Perhaps I should have done something to the man, like strike back, or push him. But how do you hit a man who is already so broken, who is already lost, delirious?

I smelt my hand, and it reeked of cigarettes. A few seconds of physical contact, and somehow all the foulness of smoke had crept onto my fingers. I longed to wash and scrape my fingers thoroughly with soap.

Creep.

Lost and down

I'm really not sure what it is... for the last month or so I've been feeling so restless, so devoid of motivation. I sit at home, surf the net, fidget with things here and there, and the hours, days, weeks go by. I try to study or do the research work I'm supposed to be doing... but I cannot concentrate. I simply cannot sit down for long enough without being distracted.

And I feel terrible.... terrible because I'm so restless and so lacking in motivation. What happened to me? What's wrong with me now? I have it all... a nice comfortable home of my own, no worries of money, not much worries about family, yet I'm so agitated and so down for some reason.

There is one thing I can point to, but I'm not sure it's the reason.... if it can be one. I often feel so alone here at home... often feel so lonely, being here in this what could be a really warm and romantic home, all alone by myself with noone to talk to, noone to share with.

Could that be the reason behind my agitation, my restlessness, my lack of motivation and just simple lethargy? I feel down.... like I'm not even sure what I am doing here, what I am doing in this study of mine.... like there is nothing I'm working towards...

Really lost, and down...