I want to wake up in a cheap motel.
In an insignificant town, with bleak tourist interest, and a native population. Tens of thousands of kilometers from home.
I want to wake up late. Almost at noon. Not by myself but by the burgeoning sounds of civilization. With sunrays gleaming across the room lighting the dust in room’s air. My skin chafing while I move across the rough sheets. In a warm, uncomfortable atmosphere filled with sepia tones.
I want to wake up with no memory of the people I know. No parents, partners, friends. Unfettered by past. Indifferent about the future.
I want to sit at the edge of the bed, head down, looking sideways to the bright window. In my worn-out cargos. I want to hear the huge wall-clock ticking, incessantly interrupting the humdrum, but not attach any meaning to what it reads.
The wall behind me… it is painted with a pale floral motif on a faint brown background. Reminiscent of a bygone era. I subtly wonder who’s on the other side. I know they have a story but I don’t want to know it.
I don’t want to know my age, my phone number, and if I have an identity. I got nothing they call belongings. There’s probably be some money on the bedside. And some more in my checkered-shirt’s pocket. Crumpled. Uncared. Might last till the evening. But I’m not sure.
And then I want to walk out. Uninitiated. Not knowing who I’ll meet. What I’ll speak. Which direction it is. If I’ll survive.
I want to have no idea whatso-fucking-ever!