Hotel room

There’s something about hotels. 

I’ve never understood it exactly. I enjoy them about as much as I enjoy train rides, which is to say “a lot.” It’s sort of a transient state of existing. You’re en route, temporarily displaced, in a state of flux – it’s hard for me to describe. You’re a visitor, an outsider who slips into a strange new setting and moves about it like they belong there. But you don’t. This isn’t your Place. 

The everyday sights and experiences of the person waiting at the crosswalk beside you are totally different, but there’s no way for them to know that. 

Can you tell I put too much thought into this? I say so because for the first time in a long time, I’m sitting in a hotel room and drawing a blank. It’s only my first night, but it troubles me that no fresh ideas are coming. I’m not even feeling very inspired on old ideas. This isn’t exactly a pleasure trip – I’m here for work. But I feel oddly cheated regardless. 

Tomorrow is a new day. Maybe something will come to me then. 

Until that spark of inspiration arrives, I carry my notebook and pen close and plan to take a train ride. 

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