6 posts tagged with "Loneliness"

When the plane landed at Keflavík, the sky was an indescribable grey-blue, mixed with a faint, elusive smell of sulfur. Three in the afternoon, yet the sunlight was as stingy as the residual glow before midnight. I had come to Reykjavik for a small translation seminar, the topic unimportant, at least to me. What truly drew me was the name "Iceland" itself, like an uncut piece of obsidian, cold, sharp-edged, yet potentially hiding unexpected light within.

Three seventeen AM. Outside the window, the city was like a weary beast refusing to sleep, breathing low. Neon light filtered through the thin curtains, casting indistinct geometric patterns on the floor. I sat at my desk, the pages of the book spread before me unmoving, yet my ears were stuffed with noise—the argument of the couple upstairs, the canned laughter from the TV in the next room, the rumble of trucks passing on the distant street, even the subtle, persistent hum of the refrigerator compressor kicking in. All of it mingled together, like countless sticky little insects, burrowing into my cerebral cortex, crawling ceaselessly.

The way my husband disappeared was like a drop of water falling on scorching asphalt on a summer afternoon – a sizzle, then evaporated without a trace. No argument, no warning, not even a hastily scribbled farewell note. He just vanished, along with his running shoes by the entryway, a few neatly ironed shirts in the closet, and the seven years we had shared. That was four years ago.

Old Man Zhang has been feeling a bit muddled lately. Not that his mind isn't sharp anymore, but he feels like something about the way life is going isn't quite right, though he can't put his finger on it. It's like the spring wind here in Beijing – blowing through the same familiar hutong entrance, but the smell carried on it is mixed with something else, something a bit pungent, and a bit... unreal.

I woke up one morning and realized that breakfast was disappearing.

It's not that the refrigerator was empty, or that the cafes were closed. Rather, people's concept of "breakfast" is becoming increasingly indifferent. Or, increasingly "liquid."

Old Wang felt light and airy, like a falling autumn leaf, gently swirling. He "saw" himself lying on the cold floor, his body stiff. The wall clock in the living room had stopped at 2:15, the time of his last walk two days ago, in the afternoon.

"Strange, how am I here?" Old Wang wondered. He tried hard to remember, but could only recall walking slowly in the neighborhood as usual, breathing in the air filled with the scent of sweet osmanthus, watching children play in the square.