When was the last time I was in a hotel room all to myself?
Not a cheap motel room where the AC and Heat in the same unit make cranking sounds. Where people are free to smoke despite regulations.
No, a decent, nice hotel room that's at least $100.
Last time? I was probably traveling. I can remember being in New York, but there it was noisy too, it was the motel version, everything was small. Here I am in a fairly large hotel room.
It's so quiet. The low hum of the AC is barely noticeable. I am in the middle of nowhere, though most Americans would beg to differ because I am still inside metropolitan Atlanta. But I hear nothing. I am surrounded by the bare winter trees and rolling hills of Emory University. There are no fire trucks racing somewhere I don't care, there are no honking drivers trying to go home. In fact, the roads are only congested here during that narrow strip of rush hour between 5 and 6PM.
Little by little, I can start hearing my mind making up sounds. I think most people's minds do that; in silence, they have to fill it with this high pitch sound. There is no one here. No one in my hotel room. Just the TV staring at me, wondering if I could be enticed to its useless information and a bottomless sink of time. If it were summer I would sit on the balcony and look at the trees on hours' end. But I am in here. I am entirely alone. And I wonder what all this luxury means, the luxury of a big bed, nice curtains, clean carpet, big closet (which I haven't even open, but the door suggests its large size), a huge mirror, and copper lamps in the shape of vases. The bathroom also paints some degree of opulence, with its granite tops and copper valves. And, oh, the granite is also found on the dresser top, which I haven't bothered to open.
Why do I need all this? I am just here, alone. My mind is opened like a Venus Fly trap, hoping for some stimulation around me. There is no one to talk to and I refuse the cheap route of the TV. My world has been that of thrift, sharing hotel rooms, or staying with my backpack in a motel room. It's lonelier thinking about all those times I was traveling alone, spending lonesome nights watching the time sink distracting a mind that wants some real connection. I am too afraid to read my book. Too afraid both to acknowledge that there is no one to talk to and to know that the book is also a distraction, healthier than the tube, but still a distraction. Distracting the mind from accepting that I am alone. I am in the middle of nowhere. I can't leave and go somewhere without making it an adventure on a bus system that I am unfamiliar with. Besides, that would be another distraction. To see new things, to read people's faces, to feed the Fly trap with flies of information, memories.
But it's so strange to be alone. Sitting here in this huge bed that reminds me even more that I am alone, that there is no one to share it with. And when my mind slowly accepts that the cage in which it dwells is alone, it quiets down eventually, before bringing up old information, memories, past thoughts, that stimulate the heart, making me feel wistful, longing for something. I know because my heart beats faster after that point. And slowly, I stop feeling tired. The fatigue of information overload slowly dissipates. And I start to remember things like the last time I was in a nice hotel room alone, what was I doing? What did I feel being alone? And my mind starts to make up new things, like asking if I can imagine now that I am not alone. What would happen. Whom would I be with and what would we be doing? And the train of thoughts start rolling out its station and going faster in all directions.
But perhaps, that's my mind seeking distraction again. It's convinced me to write this story. But it's all right. I am not perfect, at least what I do isn't perfect. At least I am enjoying the silence while writing this. At least in this silence I realize I don't need all this opulence. That all I need is really a mind that would take a break, that would stop its perpetual marathon. It's so used to running that stopping seems like the oddest thing to do. What's the hurry, I wonder.
But maybe there is no need to wonder. Maybe I can just notice what doesn't make me alone here. There are things here. I am not in a big white room where at least there's the whiteness. Everything here is made by someone; someone's hands or machine or tools made the things around here. Someone thought about the decor. Someone brought the furniture in. And of course, someone today, while my mind was busy processing all this information, made my bed and cleaned the bathroom. And then, there's my stuff. I put all the stuff in the most chaotic fashion everywhere. And as I notice these things, slowly, my life is reoriented. I am not living in a big colorless (but neither black nor white) space. There's plenty of civilization around me, in this quiet room. What is lacking, what makes it so lonesome, is that there is no one here, no human being, physically, pumping me with information. No one giving me attention, no one filling the voids in my soul with needs they can't possibly fulfill completely. That's the feeling of loneliness, thinking about what another person can do for you. And even in their presence, I may not feel so different, not less lonely. I remember when there were people, or at least one person, in a nice hotel room, how at moments I felt the same emptiness, same longing for something else, and they became no more than the fancy furniture around me.
So I am sitting alone. Looking inward.
