Wednesday, October 20, 2004

When the Night Has Come

I like this: sitting at the back of the room, watching people listen as someone talks in front of them, and I'm not expected to do anything, except observe.

Like an angel. Or a ghost.

How would it really feel like, to go through all these days without being seen or noticed, without going hungry or sleepy, without feeling anything, not even loneliness. Only a bemused detachment.

How would it feel to hear secrets all the time? To see people in unguarded moments, doing what they do when no one is looking. To be with a group but not be part of it. To be able to go anywhere, anytime. To lose the thrill of tresspass and the chance of being found out.

To be there, but not really.

It will be like a permanent Zen meditation, the longest prayer in the world. Watching people talk without listening. Watching a piece of paper as it lifts slowly from the corkboard, because of the airconditioning. Hearing the most distant sound of the world, as well as the unusual music of a dozen keyboards tapping. The rustle, the scratch, the moan, the ever-silent sigh.

I will be able to close my eyes for an entire day, feeling the wind on my skin, the sunlight on my eyelids, the tiny little creatures on my skin and hair, my clothes, my age-old pains hiding in my bones. The shifting earth, the long distant tremors from earthquakes on the other side of the world. The pea at the bottom of a pile of mattresses.

And the world will open up, with all its sights, sounds, and sensations. And it will be a million languages and experiences. And I will cry and begin talking to the world, instead of talking to myself.

Time will disappear and the world will become small like before. Life would become one big, endless journey: a pilgrimage, a long hike. And I will carry everything in my heart.

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