Stories of Awareness — Rest in Me. Arresting Me. Stressing Flee. Freeing Me. — Part 2

It’s Friday as I type away. Very close to the dream I’ve held onto since 2016, the dream of being a published author. I have a sizeable manuscript that’s been approved. And so I type away, away, and away.

Every time I think I’ve got it made, I find new ways to improve it. Leonardo Da Vinci’s words are playing true in my life, art is never finished, only abandoned. But I can’t leave this imperfect, I need it perfect. I need it to create, the kind of atomic impact, I want it to create.

It’s 3 AM, and I have an all-day event planned for tomorrow. I will run on fumes, and sleep in my Sunday. It’s the final words to hit my word count of 200,000 thousand. I end my novel with the words, THE END. And I send.

I blackout on my mattress once again, my James Bond outfit on a hook on the wall just above me. I had it dry cleaned from one of the best out lets in the city. It’s one of those days where I need to make a good surface impression. Look the best.

Oh, how I hate clothing, if it were up to me, it would be sweatpants, t-shirts, and sneakers from childhood till old age.

I like waiting tables, so it’s a tradeoff.

7:30 AM, the dreaded alarm goes off. I sit up right. Lord, thank you for the day. I read my four chapters in the Bible, and stand. I do twenty jump squats and head for the shower. A cold shower.

I get dressed and look in my mirror. I pose in all the angles I can imagine. I do look different. I should dress like this more often.

Huh, the dirt, that dust that’s collected outside my gate. I brush my shoes until I can see my reflection on the tip of the shoe. I wash my hands, put the shoes on, and step out of my abode. I reach the gate and out I go. I look at the ground, I’ll never make it to the main road, without dirt ruining my flawless.

I yawn, and order a Safe Boda. We get to the main road and I pay the rider. I get into a taxi, and my eyes shut. I get woken by a hoot at the traffic lights. My, I never thought this would happen to me. This is payment for laughing at taxi sleepers.

I fight to keep my eyes open, but the voice is too tempting. “Come into the dark Sam. You want the dark. You need the dark. You owe the dark.”

I yawn loudly.

“You’ll swallow someone one of these days,” the passenger next to me says.

I pull out my smartphone, and center the selfie camera to on face. Everything looks perfect except for the bloodshot eyes. Oh, well. I don’t think anyone will notice.

I get off at the stage close to Hotel Africana, and make for the hotel. As I enter through the pedestrian entrance to the hotel, my boss’s white Range Rover Sport stops beside me, and her window drops.

“Sam, look at you.” Her eyes glowing brighter than the sun. “You should only dress like this. You look like the next UN Secretary General.”

Sadly such ambitions never cross my mind, “Good morning Madam,” I say.

She just stares at me nodding her head, smiling, “See you later,” she says.