Supertramp Cabin

Leaving the van, the headache would not stop. It all started this morning during his last running session in the city.

He had to crouch, in order to try and regain his balance and clearness of sight. The pain was similar as if someone had put something around his head and was squeezing his skull to the inside. 

The headaches were common since he quit drinking, among other things. They would just pop up anytime and anywhere. 

When nausea and the unbearable wave of pain had passed, he got up. Out of his pocket, he took out a terribly folded map. He had no prior experience in orienteering, so there was no need to pretend that he understood what the map had said. 

Looking around, besides the road, there was nothing else to see but the trees. It was rainy and foggy. The air was clean, humid, and a relief for his compressed head. He breathed in a few times and closed his eyes. 

He stood there for a few minutes letting his face soak up a bit of the rain.

He opened his eyes, and out of his backpack, he pulled out a terribly folded raincoat.

Managing to put the wrinkly raincoat on, he started his journey. 

Still holding the map in his hands, he folded it, this time not so terribly, and put it back into his pocket. The trail was so well marked, that one could not get lost unless they were doing it on purpose. 

He needed around twenty minutes to get to the first sign that had notified him he had eight kilometers of hiking until he got to his destination. 

The destination was the cabin that he had signed up to live at for the next three months. 

He was not to pay for a stay at this cabin, as he did not have any money anyways, but the people who rented it out wanted four books in turn and a letter of statement. 

A letter of statement of why he wants to stay at this cabin, and how he will contribute to making it a better residence for future visitors. 

When one is put on the wait list for the cabin that the owners assign them to, they have to declare their desired length of stay. If one keeps the cabin in order (e.g. does not burn it down, or succumbs to stealing its many interesting items) they are granted another month, and this is to be continued once one’s uninterrupted stay reaches six months.

It was a mystery who the owners of these cabins were. The cabins were in the same area, but each resident had to get to their cabin from a different path so that there is no chance that in any shape or form, they are to disturb the other residents. As everyone finds themselves in these cabins for the same reasons.

With each step, he was a bit closer to his cabin, and his excitement grew. Would the place be cold, warm, moist, dry, or…? Would he be scared to sleep by himself, in the middle of nowhere? Would he…?

He wished he could slow down his thoughts. 

As he was climbing up a mountain, and increasing his altitude, he started running out of breath. Like a kid, he opened his mouth to drink some rainwater. 

Upon arriving in the area, with the name cabins of solitude, he came across another sign, which had notified him that his cabin was another eight kilometers away. 

Following the instructions on the sign, he then entered a more narrow path, which was obviously made by people, and by the looks of it, the people were in a rush. He had to fight through bushes, leaves, bunch of slippery rocks, and at one point he had to climb over a boulder, which was laying on a humongous rock. It was more of a trail designed for goats. 

From the thickness and roughness of the woods, he suddenly found himself in clearance, and in front of the most beautiful-looking cabin. 

It looked over the edge, over the infinite woods, tall, painted in black, with a black gable roof. The porch on the second floor had empty flowerpots. 

If the cabin was a person, we would say it was of a lean physique. 

It carried the name Alexander Supertramp. Smiling, that does not surprise me. 

To the tall board that carried the name of the cabin, a small box was attached, which he immediately opened. In it, he found the key. 

He unlocks the entrance door. It smelled of wood and fresh sheets. He took his shoes off in the hallway as per instructions. Taking off his raincoat, and backpack, he figured he might not die after all. 

The cabin had a high ceiling, followed by a spacious living room, with a Persian carpet (over which he was scared to walk over), a fireplace, and a ginormous dark red couch in front of it, accompanied by the same armchairs on each of its sides.

In front of the window with the view was only one chair, with a small coffee table.  

The bedroom had an enough-for-six-people bed, covered with white sheets. The bathroom had a copper tub. He stared at it for a few minutes, not really understanding how a fancy-looking copper tub fit into all of this.  

He instinctively ran to his backpack and took out a large bag of coffee, and a cezve. He put the cezve on the stove, thinking it would somehow magically turn on. He realized it was a wood-burning stove.

The only wood meant for the fire was the one outside, which was wetter than water. Searching inside, and opening one of Supertramp’s many jet-black doors, he discovered that the other half of the cabin had a purpose. Running downstairs, beside the nicely arranged chopped wood, the basement served as a pantry, filled with dozen packages of salt, sugar, oil, flour, and many other things. 

When the fire was finally powerful enough to make the water boil, he could not help but smile. 

He sat down on the creaky chair, put down his coffee cup on the coffee table, and exhaled the longest exhale in the last few years. 

The wall behind him had one long clerestory window, and on each end of that wall were tall bookshelves filled with endless books, that went up all the way to the ceiling. Between the two shelves, was a work desk with a chair. 

Of course, all of this caught his attention, and in order not to keep twisting his neck, he got up. 

He picked up the greeting card that was on the work desk. 

You escaped, to be born again. 

You seek an escape from daily stimulation

That is why here, there is no modern life simulation

Let it go, this life too shall pass

Take a book, and quench your thirst in a water glass

Cook, eat, sleep, just let it be 

This life too shall pass

And your bones will be long forgotten in a land of grass 

He sort of cheered with his cup to that welcoming poem. 

The bookshelves had works he knew, and ones he never heard of. Better yet, there were works in foreign languages. 

Beneath the desk, was a box filled with writings of previous residents (pr).

If one felt like writing, they could write it on a piece of paper, and put it in a box, so future residents can enjoy entering someone’s thoughts.

By adding just one piece of your writing, you will contribute to strengthening the character and soul of this cabin. We recommend reading one piece a day because once you read more than one, you will want to read all of them. And if you are at the beginning of your journey, we know you possess no self-control. The paper on top of the box said. 

He sat back on the creaky chair and stared at the pitch-black window. It was starting to get chilly, and with the wood drier than the desert sand, the fire pit was light up within a matter of minutes. 

Looking at his watch, it said 20:18.

Out of his overpacked backpack, he pulled out a notebook. The backpack was so deep, that each time he wanted to take something out, he would have to shove his whole arm in and dig through. 

Opening his notebook, which was a wannabe diary, he takes a deep breath in. 

In it, he finds a list of things he was to do, and of the things he was not to do. 

The list of to-do was slightly longer than the one of not-to-do.

He was to exercise, drink water, read, wake up early, take long walks, cook, keep his place tidy, read, and meditate. 

He was not to stay late, overeat, drink, smoke, or masturbate. 

He had way too many addictions for one human body. Drinking, smoking, and masturbation. 

He was not drinking and smoking, for two weeks, and not masturbating for five days.

His job was a regular job. It was mostly him sitting in his office chair, doing this and that. He developed a productive routine. 

He woke up at 05:15 each weekday; he made his coffee in the same way and drank it at 05:30 each morning, along with the same breakfast; each day of the week he knew what shirt he was going to wear (each of the three colors had four pieces), paired with the same black trousers (of which he had eight pairs); the same outfit was to be paired with black shoes (of which he had two pairs); he would catch the tram at 06:15; once he would find himself in his office chair at 07:00, he would reply to that many emails; he would make that many calls; he would attend that many meetings; at 14:15 he would talk to those people at the lunch break, at the same restaurant, with the same meal for that day of the week; he would catch the tram at 18:15; he would take a shower at 19:15; he would make that the same dinner at 2015; he would watch that show from the list from 20:15 to 21:50; at 22:05 he would hit the sack. 

He stuck to this routine, as he refused to be bothered by the tragic outcomes if one succumbs to doing unplanned things. 

Through that seemingly healthy and fulfilling routine, he thought there would be not any harm to have a cocktail or TWO, with his friends after work, on specific days. Cocktail time turned into every day of the week; cocktails got mixed up with weed, and unharmful pills for temporary happiness and a bit of adrenaline; he struggled with social anxiety, and instead of approaching women in person, he could simply google a few, which were more to his liking anyways, and satisfy each of his needs, and anything that was on his wishlist; that hair color, that breast and ass size, that voice, that name; there was no need for love life, when porn and solo play was so much better, so MUCH MORE STIMULATING, the ride to the climax was so much more exciting, as the sex that he had, that is the sex that was not with himself, was not so satisfying, it was MUCH LESS STIMULATING, the women were not as attractive, and he would not even find himself turned on, so why even try, when he found something SO MUCH MORE STIMULATING, where he did not even have to move, just lay on his bed, and have the projector screen – which he initially purchased for his cinephile activities –  light up his whole living room, along with cinema speakers, w and that is how he would spend his weekend nights, and later each night.

He had become dependent on the Golden Trio of pleasures as he called them, that he could not function without them.  

He was now terrified of any type of social interaction without being drunk or high, and having normal sex was out of the picture for him. Once one of his acquaintances overdosed, it was a wake-up call for him. 

He was still addicted to all three and he came here to recollect, so he would not have to throw himself off the building in which he worked. 

Through these regretful thoughts, and having to battle with urges that would come up every few minutes, he fell asleep. 

DING DING DING DING! 

He jumps in the air and somehow does not hit anything.

It was dark and cold in the cabin. Before finding a flashlight, he trips ten times, and almost dies four times. 

Once he regained his sight, it was a feeling that he must have shared with the Ancient Egyptians after the ninth plague had passed, where everything was dark for straight three days and three nights, and no one could see anyone else, or move from their place, as the darkness was blinding, and paralyzing. 

After the cracking of the fire filled the interior of the cabin, he gathered the ingredients to make bread. 

He first mixed the flour with salt. Once mixed, he put one full cup of warm water with yeast. 

The persevering sticky state of the dough irritated him. By being more stubborn than the dough, and by bullying it with additional flour, it finally started gaining shape. 

Covering it with a cloth, he let it rest for an hour. 

He planned to watch the sunrise, so in the meantime, out of his backpack, he took out the four books, and put them on the shelf, within the empty slots. He still was to decide which two he was to take with him. 

When the sun decided to give a visit to this part of the earth, he made himself coffee, and with a cozy sweater on, he got out on the porch.

It was a sight to behold. Up in the mountains, the sunrise was different, or it was simply that he never managed to get up this early to witness it. 

For a few minutes, he stared at the bright orange sky, with his mouth half opened. 

In a trance, he stared at the sunrise, until the sky was no longer bright orange. He went inside and added a few more logs to the stove. He kneaded the dough for a few more minutes, and shaping it into a rectangle, he put it in the tray, and into the oven. 

***

The cabin had all sorts of things one could do to make the stay at the cabin more enjoyable, and meaningful.

There were even sweaters to choose from, as they were described as the only proper clothing someone staying at a mountain cabin should wear, left as gifts by prs. 

Chopping wood for the fire, making fire, cooking, planting flowers, taking a hike and exploring the places recommended by prs, bathing in the stream nearby, heating up the copper tub and laying in it for hours, what sounds to look out for, and grinds his coffee beans with the manual coffee grinder. 

As he was grinding the coffee, that reminded him of the scene from Dances with Wolves, and he reenacted it, imagining that the Native Americans were here on this porch, and they waited for their first-ever cup of coffee.

In these tiny moments, his mind was unconcerned with anything else, and he could finally have a laugh just with himself.  

Many days he was scared, depressed, sad, and empty. Hikes, and being in nature would not help, these overwhelming feelings and urges would stay, and would keep him awake at night. 

Reading more than he ever used to read, he came across someone's notes in a collection of personal poetry. Write down your feelings, shape them into words, into sentences, into stories into poems, they will give meaning to your suffering. 

Once he did, most of the adjectives were sad, depressed, empty, horny, thirsty, empty, mad, angry, and frustrated. 

But it did help, and those adjectives converted into grateful, happy, content, tranquil, peaceful, meaningful, and accepting. 

Even when writing things down did not work, getting out on his porch and gently plucking out the flowers, and sticking them into his beard would always cheer him up. 

***

Looking in the mirror, three months had passed. 

His beard had grown enormously, it was one of those beards that would come up to his eyes if he did not trim it. The beard products that he had brought with him, only lasted him a month, and there were plenty in the cabin. These were either left by other bearded prs, or by forest elves. 

His beard had grown to the middle of his neck, and taking care of it was a meditation in itself. Whenever he would take a shower, he would always apply different moisturizers. A few times a week he would wash it thoroughly, then apply the beard conditioner, and brush it out until it was straight and smooth. 

Through a few relapses, after a month or so, he had found a rhythm and was on the longest streak of not consuming anything from the Golden Trio of pleasures. 

***

Sitting by one of the many streams nearby, this specific day he was instructed to leave the cabin, and come back post sunset. 

That day, someone was to review the state of the cabin and notify him if he was to receive the pass to prolong his stay. 

What he did not know, there were no reviews to be made of the cabin, he was already given the pass, as the only requirement for this pass was that the resident is found breathing and living, and not dead, almost always by way of suicide.