After we're gone

The old, rented air conditioner is making a drab, monotonous sound.
Two white lights make the room, moderately sized, brightly lit.
The fan runs smoothly cutting the air, mixing the warmth generated by walls.
The temperature outside is thirty six degrees celsius at midnight. Almost.
My computer has some good music playing. Its the soundtrack of a famous movie.
The entry door to the room is slightly open. Making the air conditioner work harder.
The room isn't very organized. There are clothes lying on the bed.
Some of them hanging on each of the two chairs. A towel, another cloth to filter boiled water.
Your side of the bed is empty except some of your worn clothes lying around.
My side of the bed has me. Unable to decide how to end the day.
It started promisingly. I don't know what happened.
As it progressed, it became more and more like the other days.
That's what happens with us eventually. Isn't it. With most people I'm sure.
We become more and more of what the world is. And less and less of what we were meant to be.
We start looking like others, talking like them, thinking. We like to get lost.
It could be the comfort of anonymity, the quiet understated lure of being a part of the flow.
The river of time and inevitability. Of chatter that lubricates the vacuous spaces of our existence.
There are traces though that remain of our promise.
The sparks leave some memories. Which our children remember and talk about. After we're gone.