A Series of Observations

When did my life become a hotel with a revolving door?

A life where, with a tragic precision, people come and go as they please.

I wait behind the desk of the hotel lobby of my life and wonder if a vacancy will ever be filled. The bell has not rung, the music plays, and I am still alone.

With each pass through I feel colder and colder, the seasons are changing again. Another year of bad business.

With each pass through I resent those I see enjoying their days beyond the glass of my wide windows. The ones sightseeing and holding hands.

I wait and I wait, nothing special to be done, nothing to be cleaned, I am not needed.

I am ready for more.

My life became a hotel with a revolving door, where people come and go as they please.

I fear, to be quite honest, that I am in the wrong line of work entirely. Perhaps I will close down this house and find a home, where I can grow with or without those that come through that revolving door.

Better yet, I will remove the revolving door entirely, and instead put the strongest oak door, where you have to knock to be let in. A peep hole to be sure, a mail slot for when I am away, which I plan to be more often.

Perhaps then, I will have no vacancy.