I am not sure what this will become. but… well, here it goes
A tale of lost dreams, broken hearts and false hopes
Peter woke up on his disorganised bedroom. The window was wide open, and the morning light was flooding the yellow room with a distinctive glow. He was still wearing his jeans from the night before, and his hair still smelled of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. He tried to get up with a groan, but his head started to spin as soon as he moved.
The night before was a cacophony of blurred memories. The party was full of handsome, intelligent people who were probably much better than him. Underachieving was indeed his best skill. Peter felt like his talent for anything and everything was lacking, to say the least, but he was pretty sure it was, actually, abysmal, so he drank as much as he could and lied about his achievements, his job and his success. It was obvious to everybody else that he was, indeed, trying to hard to impress, and the scene was deplorable… Although everybody kinda did that in the end - people lie. People tell stories that didn’t happen. People tell they did things they only wished to be able to do, on a vain attempt of being accepted, loved and admired. People have to compete with each other, so it looks like they are competent, intelligent, talented and successful. People exaggerate stories so they are cool. And Peter did that every single day of the pathetic life he lived.
He managed to close the window, sealing the sounds of the waking up city outside his room. His head still spun and hurt, but this wasn’t the worst hangover of his life. At least with all the drinking he managed to get some sleep, albeit not really restoring. His insomnia was pathologically affecting his well-being and sanity. Every night he sat on his computer, not actually wanting to sleep. The darkness and silence of the night, together with the fact that his room mates actually slept at night like healthy, sane human beings meant that nothing and nobody disturbed him. Nobody questioned what he would do this year (no freaking idea), nobody questioned how was job (shitty, as usual) or of he would finally get a stable boyfriend instead of Grindr hook-ups that lasted until an orgasm and a goodbye at the door, without even having the decency of bringing the date down to the front door of the apartment building.
He dragged his body to the bathroom, turned on the sink without bothering to turn on the lights and washed his face. The cold water helped a bit with the migraine, but everything still span. He sat on the toilet, and rested his forehead on the cold porcelain of the sink. There were clear signs of life on the apartment: Someone was listening to music on the kitchen, and another room mate was on a rather loud phone call. He was going to be late to his classes, but didn’t really care. He felt on a hole filled with a void of lack of creativity and inspiration, and watching all his colleagues do all those interesting projects was just making things worst.
To be continued