Compulsion

He has felt lazy since the beginning of the day. Restless yet there he lay, motionless and leaning against the old creaky bed, bathing in the sensation of the cool air from the air-condition, blowing gently on the back of his naked neck.

He was alone, and it is in lonesome that he becomes most conscious of his own being, and the existence that surrounds him, near and afar. He hid himself from the external world, in that foreign room, with the old mattress that emitted a foul smell that he had loathed since the first time he stepped into the house years ago. A faint smell of decay that reminded him of neglect and all the lack of qualities of personal hygiene.

He held the book he was reading on his lap, and allowed himself to immersed into the world created by Ms. Rand. Though his eyes found each word without fail, and the words registered the meanings to his mind, his heart remained elsewhere far and away, seeking that of the girl who was oceans away.

He learnt that a continuous struggle against the compulsion of a single desire was compulsion in itself. And in these days that went, she remained his one single desire. No moment passed by without a thought of her at the back of his mind. It was a haunting, a sort of throbbing want, an obsession, a definite compulsion.

But how can he appease this hunger, he wonders, his mind now back to the reality of the room. He wonders, and wonders. Does anyone has an answer for him? Or has he the answer all this while...