Donald didn't sleep well; to say that he was suffering insomnia the previous night would have been the tip of the iceberg. What little sleep he did get, he was plagued with dreams that were so relentlessly symbolic and cerebral that he had been subjected to a very deep depression upon waking that it followed him through the rest of the day without error, fault, or concern as to how it affected his performance at work; nor did it spare him the ability to hide it deep enough that his co-workers wouldn't know that something was amiss and ask him whether or not he was 'ok.'
Freshly out of a relationship, he found himself pacing his apartment at night wishing that he was anywhere but where he was; he would keep looking at his phone to see if he perchance missed the sensation of it vibrating in his pocket indicating a call from a friend who would rescue him from the walls of his apartment which he had only recently started to associate as his own, private prison. It was a small apartment and there was little space available. He wasn't claustrophobic, but he was feeling the closeness of the walls more distinctly as of late. He didn't have a couch or table. He certainly wouldn't want to invite anyone over out of sheer embarrassment of the fact that, with the exception of a folding cot, he had no place to offer them to sit and make themselves comfortable. Inviting a lady or a friend over to dinner was out of the question. Where would they eat, the floor? Donald found himself eating alone, at least on the nights where he forced himself to cook something and not eat out, while sitting in his rocking chair watching a movie or some television series that he had collected on DVD over the years.
That day he had been a robot at work. He talked with some friends over instant messenger throughout the day. What humor he found, and smile he could generate, was in schadenfreude from his friend Samson who had commented that he, Samson, had enough pictures of horribly offensive images to warrant creating a sub-folder of a specific topic; in this case it was amputee porn. Donald wasn't laughing so much at the concept of the porn, or that his friend collected it; it was more the fact that he knew that both him and Samson were very sick puppies in regards to the fact that they found the fact that a sub-folder was necessary absolutely hilarious in a sophomoric way. Donald could always count on Samson to improve his spirits, even if only for a short while.
The rest of the day was the usual routine in cyber-crime. Examine confiscated evidence that the field agents would bring in, try to rescue data and then sift through it to see if there was anything of importance or relation to the case that the hardware was brought in on. It was boring and drall but it kept a roof over his head and ensured that he wouldn't go hungry. It didn't help his ego or morale that, despite his finding extremely little pleasure in what he did, he was naturally good at his job. But it was not his passion. His formal education was actually that of a trained artist. Unfortunately no one pays, or pays attention to, most artists when they are still alive; so he had to shift gears to his other talent that failed to inspire any form of creativity: becoming a tech-head.
After work he got back home, simultaneously avoiding people while talking to one or two who were his good friends about what was bothering him. The dream he had was one that he knew rattled his very id at a subconscious, psychological level. It was the sensation that everyone he knew, had become friends with, was interested in, or may have been seeing was doing nothing more than giving him lip-service; in the end, they would not be there for him when he needed them. Ever. In the end, he would be the friend that everyone would forget about when they make their plans or when they want to hang out with someone on a Friday night.
What hurt the most is that he had seen evidence of this in the past. The previous year he had organized a party for a combination of New Years, his at-the-time girlfriend's, and his birthdays. Only his co-worker Jack and his girlfriend showed up. Everyone else who said they were interested bailed for other parties with other people. No one even bothered inviting him, or her, to join them.
His divorce destroyed a lot of the trust that he was capable of having in other people. This dream, despite it being almost three years after the divorce, damaged it even further. Right now, this evening, he hated people more than he ever did; and he did consider himself a bit of a misanthropic, jaded, cynical asshole by nature as it was. Though, despite whatever misgivings he had about himself, accurate or otherwise, he hated feeling alone worse than anything else. Pacing back and forth he wished that he could shut off his emotional need to want to be with someone. Sex wasn't the issue; his hand could satisfy his release quite well enough. But knowing that you can either come home to, or wake up next to someone who genuinely, without question, gives a flying fuck about you was what he truly craved more than anything in the world. He was a loner by nature. Most of his life, throughout school and even a bit of college, he always found himself on the fringe; he never quite understood 'people'. Individuals he could usually get along with. In fact, he prided himself on being a bit of a social chameleon. Toss him into a group of people, he'll find someone he could chat up and make laugh. In the end, though out it all, he always felt alone and different then anyone else he ever met.
Tonight he was facing his typical conundrum. Not wanting to deal with the complications of relationships or people, but desperately wanting to be anywhere else other than the place that he lived. Tonight, however, he felt a mild difference. A question suddenly manifested itself in Donald's mind: why do I not like living here? Aside from escaping the clutches of my soul-sucking bitch of an ex-wife, why did I choose this place? He really enjoyed it when he first moved in, why did it repel him now. There weren't bad memories here like there was in the previous dwelling.
Then it hit him like the mountain of accumulated crap that he realized surrounded him. It was the space. The lack of simplicity. He recalled when he first moved into the place that he wanted to maintain a bit of a simple life. Not much internet. Few possessions. Just enough to get by. Just his computer, his art, his writing and his parrot. Instead he realized that the cycle that is common amongst most people had begun again and slowly worked its way into his apartment much like a cancer slowly developing in the lungs or heart of a smoker and not showing itself until it was almost too late: he accumulated more stupid crap over the last two years and he never really did anything with it. Books on shelves that had been purchased with the prospect of being read and never opened; nick-nacks and bits and bobs were strewn around the place occupying whatever open, flat, space was allowed to them; the practical closet that his art studio and computer room was had turned into an aviary with little control over what inspiration the initial space was intended for. It had to go.
The next thing he knew, he found himself clawing books off the shelf. Was it important? Did he actually read it within the last two years? Had he read it before? Why did he keep his calculus and business class notes and textbooks? Why the fuck did he still have ancient technical certification guides that were completely outdated by this point in time. As the night passed he found himself with two boxes full of books and crap that would be destined for a donation center. The rest of the contents of the bookshelves was on the floor in the main room. The bookshelf in the studio, which original was a high-tensile, wire shelving unit, was disassembled and put away in a small storage nook in his hallway. The bookshelf in the main room would be stripped apart and then reassembled to take it's place. After that was done he would begin the process of placing books back on it; during this process he would go through them again and ask himself if he really would want to keep them. He was now forcing himself to limit his space even further.
His vision that started this showed a open area in the main room where a couch could go. He could then have people over to his place and not feel as though he was completely separated from society, or his friends. It would even allow him the ability to setup a small corner dedicated to his music; having found a new passion in learning the guitar over previous five months he realized he didn't have any space setup for it where he could sit and focus on it for a period of time with little to no distraction. The corner in the main room would suit that purpose perfectly.
As he finished disassembling the old wire shelf and looked around at the productive disaster area that his apartment's main room had become he felt his stomach growl. He laughed in spite of himself. He'd dealt with depression, even a bout worse than the one that he was feeling today, and every time it came around he always ended up forgetting that it was pretty damn important that he eat food. He thought about calling this girl that he was seeing, sort of. They agreed to stay undefined, and it very slow, which was fine with him. Though, the tone she used, told him she wasn't as interested in him as he was interested in her (at east that was the most probable situation; though he sometimes wondered if he was over thinking their whole situation.) She had also dropped a big hint that she didn't like being texted or called much by her would-be suitors. He opted to pass on seeing if she was interested in dinner. Besides, he knew that the lack of definition (and by result, lack of communication) of what exactly 'they' were was contributing to this whole ordeal (that was even assuming 'they' were even 'anything' at all right now). Despite whatever confusion he felt about the ordeal, he didn't need his trust issues to affect his feelings towards her as he did genuinely like her. The fact that he liked her, and was completely scared of things going too quickly, to the point of border-line social paralysis, actually kept him from reaching for the phone. If she wanted to keep things quasi casual, that's fine; frustrating, but fine. Donald's mother raised a respectful gentlemen. They could always talk more about things in the future once he got himself a bit more centered.
Instead he opted to grab his laptop and backpack and head out of the apartment; he was ready and willing to deal with people if it meant his stomach would shut up. The remainder of the reorganization could wait for later. Besides, he hadn't written anything serious in almost a month. Maybe it was time to write a new fictitious journal entry. He could change the names, add a touch of drama and mystique, all while spilling his guts out on the page and no one would be wiser (well, almost no one -- his friends who knew him closest would see through his bullshit in a heartbeat): his stomach shuts up, he gets cathartic release, and someone thinks he is being creative. He smiled as he left the apartment door, thinking that maybe tonight may result in a positive ending for the day after all.
