The fickleness of new daylight

Honestly, I am not even fully awake when I discover a red-haired woman with a fire-breathing dragon tattooed on her neck sitting on my toilet. Okay, maybe I can overlook that. Perhaps she is in distress? Who knows. But the fact that there is also a balding man in a torn tracksuit eating a grapefruit at my kitchen table is taking things a bit too far.

I value my privacy, especially early in the morning. I need time to prepare for the day ahead. I cannot just dive into a new day with only a freshly washed face, like some kind of dolphin. Life is too harsh and unpredictable for me to act so carelessly. If I do not prepare myself properly, I will get lost, overwhelmed.

"I'm out of toilet paper!" the woman yells from the upstairs bathroom. Out of toilet paper? I had put a whole roll there yesterday. Have that many people used my toilet last night?

On the landing, I bump into an older man in a green jacket, green pants, and green boots. He has a pair of binoculars hanging around his thin neck and carries a map in his hand. He wants to know where he can spot birds in the area surrounding my house.

I raise my hands to the sky in despair. That is what I have planned for myself this morning. To take some time off, to seek silence like adventurers seek new horizons. Once I find that calmness, that peace, I will expose the pain, the sorrow, the fear.

I will caress them like you stroke diamonds. I will hold them in my hands, name them disregard, rejection, and loneliness. I will bury the words in the soft desert sand, take a handful of grains, place them beside the words, water them, protect them, cherish them. I will wait for them to grow, the whole grain, to bake bread from it. A hearty, tasty wheat loaf. I will share this bread with everyone who is hungry. Such will be my words, I decided this morning. So beautiful, so strong-willed, so sharp-witted.

When I explain to the bird lover where he can go to fulfill his ornithological dreams, I walk downstairs to find a girl with reddish-purple hair sitting on my sofa. She is wearing large black headphones and, from the looks of it, is reading one of my antique books, marking it with a red pen.

Fortunately, I find an unoccupied chair in the kitchen. A woman wearing a kitchen apron, the self-proclaimed "lord of the kitchen," is preparing an English breakfast for everyone present. Frying sausages, bacon, and mushrooms, Scrambling eggs. Besides, she is toasting white bread, and squeezing blood oranges.

It tastes great, I must admit. Despite all the unrest, the hustle and bustle, the morning meal is better than I have had in years. A man with a pointed nose and a rough mustache (a relative of Nietzsche?) is reading my newspaper. I do not have the energy to argue. I take a last bite of my white beans and stand up.

What are my plans for today? Am I going to chase all these people out of my house? I do not hate people in general, but I also really like my own silence, my own space. That is why I love my home so much. It is the place where I can retreat into my own thoughts, my own ideas. And prepare myself to face the world: the pointless wars, the futile natural disasters, the hopeless politics.

This morning, I have planned to start writing. I have a small room in the attic with a wooden table, an office chair, a lamp, and piles of books on the floor. It is my little paradise, my kingdom.

Once I am on the top floor, I come across a young mother in the loft, breastfeeding her child. Of course, I should have known better. Young mothers also need their rest and tranquility.

Descending the stairs again, I remember that I have discussed my desire for solitude with my family and friends on several occasions. As a result, I often miss birthdays and parties. I am not a hermit, but I do need seclusion to put my thoughts on paper. That is what I require, what I need. To detach myself and become a good thinker, a good writer.

Unfortunately, I rarely succeed with this intention. There are still so many social activities I must attend that solitude is a luxury. Nevertheless, today should be different. Today is special. I want to start drafting the book that answers all my questions.

So far, I have had little success in writing the ultimate work. I blame my fellow human beings for this. As long as they're too prominent and too noisy, how can I ever commit the deepest thoughts of my soul to paper? How can I unearth my most profound views?

A boy over two meters tall (a basketball player or a high jumper?) asks if I had any protein bars or Greek yogurt. He is going to the gym soon and needed the right nutrition.

It is all getting too much for me. I decide to go outside. I take my notebook with me, hoping to find a quiet spot in the city park, near the ripple-free dark water, the joyful geese, the playful trees, and the jocular bushes.

I have not even taken a step outside when I am blinded by sharp, bright lights. After a few seconds, I am able to open my eyes and find myself surrounded by countless photographers shouting and giving directions. They want me to look more cheerful. Behind barriers, countless residents are staring at me. I stare back, mystified. What is going on?

Before I can think of a reply, a woman in a deep brown suit and a silver official chain, steps forward. She is an alderperson or the mayor, I guess.

"On behalf of the entire city council and all the residents of the city," the high official begins, explaining the commotion. The council wants to thank me for making my house available to the homeless, the sick, and the less well-off.

I am about to respond, to ask how they come to believe I have opened up my house, but there is loud applause and cheers. I am pinned with a medal while a band plays "In the Mood" by Glenn Miller.

As soon as I have the opportunity, I flee inside and shut the front door behind me. In the hallway, I calm down and remember my notebook. How eagerly I recall my longing to find peace, to discover words of wisdom, hope, and comfort.

Where can I go? Do I no longer have any freedom? Is this my life, my existence? Will I forever be surrounded by guests, by loud noises, and be ready for people's needs, their questions, their worries?

For a moment, I consider getting angry, taking a bread knife from the kitchen drawer, and shouting at everyone to leave my house. I can scream that it is a misunderstanding, that my home is no place for the unfortunate. And if asked why, I will explain that I am a man with a mission, called to write, to analyze the pain and sorrow of humanity, and to replace them with words of relief.

Suddenly, a young elephant is led into the living room through the back door. The animal trumpets, followed by a man in a tall black hat (a circus director?). Who has told him that my house is a refuge for wild animals? But I cannot make myself understood.

Meanwhile, the brass band marches in through the front door. The elephant starts dancing to the music. I sink to the floor, despondent and desperate. Is this a punishment, an ordeal, a chastening, a disciplining form my selfish and egocentric life?

Then the band begins playing "The Shadow of Your Smile". Subdued and stylish. The elephant stops dancing, the circus director closes his eyes, and the visitors in the kitchen listen with interest. And automatically, I start writing in my notebook. About this morning, about the hustle and bustle, my frustration. And especially about now. About how lively and beautiful it is. The music, the people. And how incomprehensible my existence is. A playful mixture of erratic chaos and foolish unpredictability.