(August 31, 2023, Time No. 1704)
If I had died, let's say in the fall, everything would look exactly like it does today. From which I draw the conclusion: when I die, everything will still look like this. Is it a devastating or, on the contrary, a comforting thought? Or none of that, but just the mere fact of the unbearable lightness of non-existence?
A barrier stood between me and the city, and then the world, as if I remained on one side of the battle, and he on the other. I would like to go to him, but I can't. I and the city and the world, after all, are neither two nor three, but one; I always thought so. However, it doesn't matter to him: with me or without me, he lives his life. If I'm there, that's fine, if I'm not, that's fine too. People are constantly disappearing anyway, replaced by others, the streets are still full of cars, cyclists, and pedestrians. The young man and the girl kiss long and desperately, as if the latter is going to war; the bleached woman leaves the market overloaded; a girl licks an ice cream; Grandma sells flowers. At a large intersection, four should turn right, and two should continue straight. Their drivers call each other jokes through the small windows.
My feet have not passed that street, or any other, for a long time, too long. No one could see me on them, smile at me or look at me with a scowl; as far as the streets of my city are concerned, and in all other cities of the world, I could also have been dead all this time, because what is dying but being absent from the world of the living, from the dimension in which the living meet each other?
And yet, from time to time, quite often now, I pass through the city - or it would be more accurate to say pass me by through town? Because I am in the status of a transported person, imprisoned in a medical van from which you can't see much outside, and from the outside you can't see anything that is inside, so even in that already ghostly capacity I am invisible, like a ghost, without a form, without a voice. I could ride past very close people unnoticed, anonymous, the way anonymous people are in a military uniform, a priest's dress or a tight-fitting prison outfit. They are not civilians, which completely depersonalizes them, and it is not even a sick person imprisoned in a tower because of his illness, powerless to participate in the life of the world independently and according to his wishes. And that means, in the end, also in your own life.
Because our life is actually nourished to a surprising extent by the life of others, and therefore tasteless without them. And others are not only those close and dear, who will not leave you when your life goes into the shadows, but also superficially known or completely unknown people, perfect strangers; if the former are food for life, the latter are spice.
And when I return home from the van-fortress, the precious coincidences of the outside world and the blissful anarchy of life disappear once again behind the horizon. But the longing for them does not go away, because between it and the spark of life it is not only possible but also necessary to put a sign of equality.
And since all this mine lasts, I've noticed, for example, that I spend a lot more time watching movies than reading books. At first I thought that I lacked concentration and that the film was easier to follow. Over time, I began to understand: I devour movies because I miss flesh and blood people. Their faces, bodies, gestures, voices, smells, sounds, kisses, gunshots, screeching brakes, pounding footsteps, anything. The beauty of Claire's knee, the rough snout of Lina Ventura. Of course, they are actors and they play according to a script, but they are still real, they inhabit or have inhabited the same world as me.
Or, let's say, music: I constantly watch concerts on YouTube, which I rarely did before. I was even annoyed by the "distorted" live versions of beloved songs. And now I feed on concerts, the roar of the audience, sweat in the ground floor and sweat on the stage, happy to watch something that once really happened, and even if I wasn't there, I could have been. I look at it all, at least for a moment, fulfilled physicality of that event.
I still have hope of returning to the city and to the world, although I know that it would only be temporary. But we return temporarily, only departures are permanent. Meanwhile, I sneak into the lives of others, spying on it hidden behind the glass of a van speeding through town, wanting nothing more than to retrace it one more time, and one more time, and as many times as I'm allowed to.
