Tomorrow, I will wake up hungry

Prague. It’s 22.30 and for ages I felt like I was forgetting something. Then I remember I hadn’t had a bite to eat. Does it make sense to have dinner at this time?

I hear in Spain they would. Or is it Argentina?

Earlier, when it got dark, I walked out to check out the scene and the world around me. About four people stopped me trying to bum a fag or some change off me. They all had darkened skin and their clothes were tattered.

I remembered last year a friend in Brno had told me about speaking to someone who had been working in a homeless shelter. She had told her that some were never taught to do the most fundamental things of human existance.

Some of them had never been told that after you shit, you should wipe your ass. And when they got older, they got used to walking around with hardened, dried up shit all the time.

I had never thought about that and it stayed with me.

One thing that constantly caught my eye, during my walk, was the middle aged men smoking cigarettes outside a pub or the door of their apartment building. There was a sense of melancholia about it. I wondered where their mind wandered as they smoked that cigarette, alone.

And my mind wandered too, to my grandfather in that hospital room, alone, facing mortality in the dark. And I thought about Ivan Ilych and how he, too, had faced mortality alone.

Tomorrow, I will wake up hungry; ten years later.

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