Recounting His Experience Backward

Looking out at the skyline of buildings and trees, I wonder why life has been both so generous and so callous with me. I flick my gold-leaf-and-wood pen in my hand, twirling it between my index finger and thumb and recount the billions of dollars I’ve earned and the comforts it has allowed me: my BMW M6, my Mercedes-Benz G500, my house in the suburbs, a 4-seat Robinson helicopter in my back yard, my seven vacation homes, and all my friends, fans, and supporters.

A pale light comes through my office window, reflecting off of wood on the surface of my desk to subtle blur of white-and-blue.

I press my black Italian driving moccasins against the silk rug supporting my swivel chair and look to a Theodore Ceriez painting next to the door, then the deep oak bar next to the Ceriez, and finally to six different glasses atop the bar. My hand let’s go of the pen, gently guiding it in line with the Macbook Pro adjacent. I think of what got me here.

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This morning I woke up and looked out of the clear, bulletproof bedroom window to a sunny beach outside.

This isn’t my room.

The sun hung on the ankle of the water, making it impossible to sleep.

Everyone is up already anyways. I can never sleep late at first in unfamiliar places unless I have been drinking heavy or have nothing better to do. The graces of this place are interested in one thing of mine: my artwork.

I tip-toe across the sandalwood, gliding the balls of my feet across a shaggy white carpet in order to feel its smooth tickling sensations. I put a K-cup in the coffee maker, press the flickering blue espresso cup and wait for the drip to finish before adding two drops of 18% cream and taking a tiny sip.

The enigma is this isn’t the way I take my coffee, these aren’t my feet, and this isn’t my life. This certainly isn’t my home. 

Confused, I sit down and draw a picture while reflecting on the events that brought me to the ocean.