19/02/17, Late Night Life
It's late for a computer room, I can hear the wind outside and I know I'll have to walk my way through it. It's dark, of course, outside, and I am the last one here.
I went to the cinema last night, to a late-night showing, a shitty film with a 10.30pm start. I walked home, passing pissed teenagers in a bus stop, I haven't seen them there before, and walked around them, onto the road, showing my relative fear by doing so.
I have spent the whole week working on an essay and I realize I have nothing to say this Sunday night.
If I had money, I'd go to a bar and drink something refined, cognac or something similar, like they were drinking in last night's film. I'd be reading a book and relaxing over my cognac. I've never drunk cognac, but I think that's what I'd do.
There's a bottle of vodka in my apartment, I got it in December, a present from a friend. I drank some of it at the time, but I haven't touched it since. I'm afraid of touching it. Of starting something, some kind of habit while living alone, so there it stays. And I guess I don't want to have the pink-tinted face of someone who drinks, or the dehydrated brain of one when I wake up in the morning.
It's funny, when I lived in Saudi Arabia, and alcohol was scarce and I didn't brew or distil or make my own, so only occasionally drank at friends'. It's funny because I thought that would be my life when I left that place eventually, when I got to Edinburgh to start my studies, sipping cognac or brandy over a Kafka novella in an alcove in a bar, by candlelight. It's funny to think of how good it's going to be. Nothing beats repression to make the other side seem so wonderful.
Nothing beats it, certainly not the reality.It's dark and it's late, this late night life. I'm going home. Goodnight.