The Road to Solitude: Sublime Infatuation

By Yousuf Azimi

David Francis is a man who left the small town of Stinfer and wanted one thing: to completely forget his previous life. Love was the last thing on his mind but not until he met a woman called Elizabeth. Elizabeths interest in Davids stories and her mere presence takes him back in time and reminds him of whom he was: a child who was forced to kill on his tenth birthday, a man who believed in seven gods, a man who believed in the three brothers myth, a deadly Casanova and, most of all a man who had a never ending taste for the human heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491896723

Yousuf Azimi

Yousuf Azimi was born in the city of Kabul, Afghanistan. He is currently pursuing his dental degree from Pakistan, but writing takes up most of his time. At the age of nineteen, he published his first book, “The Road to Solitude”.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

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I left the town of Stinfer, leaving behind memories of both happiness and sadness, though one cannot say if they were equally balanced. I left my father to pursue my dream of becoming an artist—a musician, an author, anything other than what I currently was.

Paris was welcoming; it was as beautiful as the paintings made by its famed painters. I came across buildings that stood alive, archaic but still dynamic. There was much to discover… starting with the bar three blocks down.

My luck with bars had always been good, and I was grateful that it had not left me yet. This bar that I had come across was a small one, with less traffic and bearable food. The bartender was a Scottish man. I did not bother asking him about his venture beyond the great land of Scotland. The French, on the other hand, were friendlier than portrayed. My quietness disturbed them, but I preferred it that way. After many visits, they soon respected my privacy and did not bother me with their chit-chat.

I pursued my dream. My motivation was the art that I gazed upon every day for hours at end, which still seemed too short. It made me feel alive and, at times, overwhelmed. The level of talent surrounding me was beyond anything I had ever expected or imagined, but then again, they were the pioneers of art. The bitter truth was something I had not even considered till now: is life long enough to pursue such an exquisite ability?

It was a Saturday evening, not the best of days due to the mass of drunken people surrounding one. I sat in my regular seat, kept vacant by the bartender for me. After all, when else would the large tips come in use?

‘Mr Francis?’ the bartender said in a thick Scottish accent. He was a thin young man with freckles, and the typical red hair.

‘Yes?’

‘Some guy asked me a question the other day, and I couldn’t answer it,’ he began; ‘I mean, c’mon, if I was smart, would I be working here?’

‘What’s the question?’

‘He asked, "What is the only thing that man thinks or worries about, and can’t find the answer to?" Now I didn’t know the answer, so I told him I would give him a ring later on.’

I smiled. ‘Did you honestly try answering it?’

‘‘Ha ha, of course I did, but no harm in giving it a shot now.’

I shook my head, amused. Could a man really be so naïve? Could he really not know the answer to such a straightforward question? Why would anyone ask such an easy question anyway?

I sighed and answered, ‘The future. Every man is daunted by one thing: the outcome of the future.’

‘Yes! Ha ha! Good on you! The future!’

I continued further, ‘Now I have a question for you. What determines the future?’

‘The past?’

‘And what do we do with the past?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You see, the past determines our present and our future, but man is so worried about the future that the past becomes parchments of paper for him; vague memories, buried, decomposed, forgotten, while he still worries about the future. If we only pay attention to our past and present, we can very well determine our future. Don’t you think so?’

‘Eh? You lost me there.’

‘Just give him his answer, my friend.’ I smiled at him, unable to keep it away. I should not have gotten carried away.

‘Nice lecture, sir,’ came a voice, smooth as silk, almost melodious. I turned around to see the source; if I had even the slightest bit less control, my jaw would have dropped to my knees. Her fair glowing skin and bright hazel eyes took my breath away. With lips carved to perfection, and a strand of thick, wavy brown hair dangling on one side, she looked picturesque. ‘You’re not from around here, I see,’ she continued, staring back.

Realising I was to the point of gawking, I managed to muster a, ‘Nice to meet you, Ms… ?’

‘Elizabeth Doyle.’

‘David Francis.’

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear. Your accent was the first thing that caught my attention. It’s not British, not Scottish either, but rather somewhere between that of an Irishman and an… American?’

‘I live in a small town called Stinfer. You’re correct, in a way. Actually, none of us can really be sure where we came from, because we migrated from different Scandinavian countries, our different cultures dissolved, and we became one because in times of turmoil, we needed to be united.’

Her eyes bore into mine, and I cannot say when I last saw someone listen to me with such attentiveness.

‘It was interesting, what you said.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Doyle,’ I said; after all, I did not want to be presumptuous. ‘You’re far too kind. Could I get you