A traveler decided to visit the local monastery. He visited everything else, didn’t find much, and had two days left before his next flight. Wistfully discontent, he loaded up the rental car and went.
The roads turned from asphalt to gravel; the lights changed from electric to wicker.
A rusty gate gave way and some lush flora came into view, decorating the courtyard. All types of greenery cityfolk rarely knew.
Yet the traveler paid no heed to such things.
After finding a open patch for his vehicle, he jumped out to get affairs in order. So he hustled around until he found a monk and pulled out his wallet. The monk gave him a concerned look, waved away his wallet, and gestured to follow instead. He led him through the simple building to a spare room for the night.
Relieved to drop his bags — quite heavy they were, they contained almost everything he considered a part of him! — he discovered his guide quietly left. And with that, he took a hard look at the room.
There wasn’t a fan, nor A/C. The television was missing, and his phone signal was dead. No sockets either. A bed unrolled right on the ground, with a cotton blanket for warmth. Absent was the closet, only an open window that shared a different view of the courtyard. Its central fountain brought some sound into an otherwise still night.
Without a chair to sit in, he found himself feeling like a gradeschooler, criss-crossing his legs. How sore he was already! Too stiff for such things. And without the motorway near, without a newscaster inciting fear, the silence crept up on and into him.
The nothingness flooded his inner sanctuary of food stalls, crosswalks and web-radio. Couldn’t get a lick of sleep. He was up as he saw the morning sun peak into his room.
As he double-checked his belongings, the same monk startled him with a knock of the door.
“Yes, yes, come in!”
So the monk entered, yet offered no words. Only a raised eyebrow. The traveler took it as invitation to continue.
“How can you live in such a place? There’s nothing to do… nothing to see, nothing to be! I’ve no place to put my stuff, there’s no room!”
The monk stood silent.
“And the silence is killing me. There’s always stuff happening, but not here. Here I am, absolutely deprived and none the wiser.”
“Ah, but there seems to be a lot happening with you!” exclaimed the monk. And he smiled, nodded, and left.
Such smugness left him absolutely livid. No more. He gathered all of himself, stacked his bags, and threw it into his rental car. With no one to help him, he had to waste his time with that rusty gate. So he drove his car through, and with any courtesy left in him, closed the rusty gate once more, with a final look at that central fountain.
To get some noise back in his life he rolled down the windows. The sound of gravel against tire calmed him. And he heard some birds around too. Squirrels bickered and scurried to avoid his vehicle. If anything the sound of the motor bothered him, what a grating sound.
Soon he was robbed of the gravel, along with the birds and squirrels. Back on asphalt with, at first, his motor for company, but then a low hum took over. He looked up and found a sprawl of cables hanging all mangled over the road. That was the source. Was this hum always there?
The motor soon found friends as he merged onto the highway. The honking, the fumes; he had to roll up his window. To counteract the silence he popped on the radio. Why didn’t he think of this earlier! But the songs just didn’t match what he was looking at. And the newscasters all said the same things. It irritated him more.
Finally parked and back in the city center, he paid for one more night at the hotel. So he lugged all of his stuff to the room and plopped himself on the bed. As he looked over his bags, he took inventory again with some attentiveness.
There was a laptop, some books, a journal, a lot of clothes, and other nice-to-haves for every biome or situation. There was a camera too! Looking through the photos they looked like the postcards that swayed him to go in the first place. Why did he take the photo?
Did he even open his laptop this entire trip? Half of these preparations have an expiry date on them. And he only wore three pairs of clothes most of the trip. It dawned on him that he didn’t need any of this.
He opened the journal. On the first page was big plans, great excitement. It talked of a new life, new world, and then he found the rest of it blank.
When he looked out of this window, it looked the same as his apartment back at home. The lights seared something into him, so he closed the blinds. And the motorway still reverberated through the walls. Turning on the lights in the bathroom left a hissing sound until off again.
So he stared at the ceiling for a final attempt to distract himself. And he could only see the monk’s smug-less smile. Or the fountain; how he wished to see it again. The splots of violet and spring that interlaced with stone. Bluejays and cardinals spun a helix path, which took him to the monastery once more.