Hotel Rooms

Hotel rooms are depressing. The cigarette butts left behind in the ash tray, stains on the bedsheets, windows that never open or close , broken shelves and outdated TV sets. All silent reminders of the collective gloom they carry. The pain of too much or too little suffering of all those who have stayed in the room before you. You look at the ceiling above you , at the fan defeated by dust and feel the burden of ancient air. The air saturated with sin, lust desires and disgust. And you feel like a stranger. The room obviously doesn’t want you but still it lies naked beside you in your bed like a prostitute. It has no choice. And you feel awkward and unwanted. Like an intruder in someone else’s bedroom or a villager in a university lecture hall. Some people stay only for a night, switching through channels and staring out of the window while others stay long enough to hear all the tales the room has to tell until they become part of it’s story , camouflaged in the furniture with a “do not disturb” sign outside. But they all leave in the end. Like grownup kids who head for far off lands, never to return , leaving behind only a smell of their existence.