Welcome to the Den

Footsteps in the flat above and a vague awareness of bright daylight rouse me from slumber. My heavy body remains pressed into the mattress as I open first one eye, then the other. Soft light pours in through netted curtains and washes over the posters and photographs dotted along walls that are overdue a clean. I look around sleepily. Antique tea cups, too many candles, knick knacks painstakingly brought home from exotic places. Fairy lights wrapped like vines around curtain rods and door frames. A pile of hats; outdated globe showing East and West Germany; and a red leather suitcase peer into view. I smile as I survey the plethora of possessions that have become an extension of me. The Den, as it is affectionately referred to by almost all those who enter, has become a haven for myself and other struggling students and artists. There is evidence to support this claim, I realise, as I wrinkle my nose at the stale lingering smell of cigarettes and the fallen wine glass that has emptied its contents all over my coffee table, already littered with amateur poetry, decks of cards, and uncried tears.

I slide off the side of my large hardwood bed and into a pair of worn woolen slippers, though it’s not cold enough to warrant them. I amble into my kitchenette. I pour too much coffee into the plunger and await the kettles sweet cry of climax. The promise of thick black caffeine gives me the motivation to tidy my living quarters to a degree of cleanliness acceptable for the enjoyment of a morning coffee. My silk dressing gown drapes across my skin and a tangle of mahogany sweeps over my face and shoulders. The removal of my couch has left me no other option but the use of a pair of camping chairs that sour the ambience of my beautiful palace. Unable to conform to the rules of sitting down, I pose sideways, with long legs dangling over the arm rest. Here I prepare for the day ahead. An alcoholic kind of mood inspires my blasting of Placebo from the laptop beside me.

I scan the discarded anatomy and chemistry textbooks lying open on the floor, begging to be read, but offering little in return. The admiration they used to receive has waned quite drastically the past six months. I grimace as I wonder why the hell I’ll ever need to know about protein spectrophotometry or hyperkalemia.  My visions of white coats and letters after my name swirled up and vanished like a tornado. The passion, the force, the driving mechanism is nowhere to be seen. You cannot hold onto the wind.

Faraway places have been consuming my daydreams. I’m yearning for the kind of explorations through which only youth can be your vessel. The panic instilled by the turning of the hour glass screams in my ears demanding attention. I am imprisoned. I am chained by a lack of direction and an abundance of apathy. My creative soul has been woken, and it roars with terror and gnashes its jaws as it fights the empty echoes of a place without depth, merely a hollow passing of time.

My mind is full of possibilities and dreams that bounce about and burst into colour and life and sights and sounds in my cranium. As I lazily gaze about the Den, my eyes come to rest upon a set of three paintings. They evoke images of a bustling market street. Vendors negotiating the price of their silver and gold ornaments; tamarind and curry paste wafting up the street to tempt hungry shoppers; a Southern accent announcing the price of peaches. My skin tingles as I remember the warm summer breeze dancing upon it as immersed myself in the busy crowd and let the scene wash over me. I bought the paintings in Portobello Road.

I sigh as I arise to the whisper of menial tasks and repetition. Another day trying the keep my feet on the ground, pretending that I fit in here and that everything will be okay. Hiding a certain kind of loneliness only felt when surrounded by others. A deep breath, held and released slowly with great resignation. This is how I begin my day.