It was winter. The wind was blowing heavily outside. The empty streets were filled snow. The only thing that can be seen through the room's window were the street lights, lighting the darkness of the cold night. He was laying down on his bed. Feeling tired and exhausted. Looking at the sealing above, hearing the sound of wind coming from the closed window. The bed sheets are wrapped around him as an attempt to find some warmth.
The little light coming to the room is taking away some of the darkness, making him able to look at the stuff around him. The thick black jackets on his cloth hanger, the new formal shoes that sits next to the cloth hanger that he still did not wear yet. The wooden chair and table. On top of it, his opened notebook, the pen and the black pen. Most of his belongings and his room furniture were in darkish colors. As if he chose them to blend with the a theme of his writings. The words that were written in different pages of his notebook. It was something that he believed that was a taste or a choice. But, what he did not fully realized, that at times, it was more of his thoughts being transformed into choice of things, colors and collections.
The moment before he went to bed, he was trying to complete the writings in his book. It was not exactly a story, nor, a reflection. A sort of combination of both. He was not trying to be a novelist, a writer or a publisher. It was something that felt deeper than that. He was trying to give a voice to things that were kept inside his mind. Thoughts that never saw light. Memories that were hidden. But, kept finding their way into his thoughts. He was wondering of how lonely can a thought be when it challenges the norm. He ended his night with writing "and it was that same th" and he opened his eyes and realized that he slept for a few seconds, before he decided to call it a night.
