All your life you haven’t lived anywhere above 1st floor. You look out of a 45/F window and down to the street and your knees go weak. You fight the urge to step off the edge and dive like a swan. The ground pulls you toward it. You have to lean back and look at buildings far away for the feeling to pass.
You find yourself in a club. Dark. Black. Like most clubs. The bar counter is covered with mosiac glass tiles which reflect the changing colors of the lights. Lighting is provided by small halogen lights along the walls and on the arched ceiling. Lights that constantly change color – red, orange, blue, green, yellow. The effect is hypnotic.
You pull back the beaded curtains and walk down the short, dimly lit corridor. Closed doors on either side. The smell of musk is overwhelming. You reach one door that is half open, left ajar as an invitation. It is dark inside, the flickering flames of tea-lights scattered randomly around the room providing the only illumination. On the bedside table you see an unlit candle, box of matches, glass bottle of oil, serving tongs, wooden clothes pegs, riding crop, white scarf, hairbrush. You wonder.
You think about cutting your hair so it is very very short.
You think about tattoos and piercings and you know you will never have the courage.
You think about losing weight and getting very fit and being able to run miles and miles.
You yearn for a sense of adventure.