The Silence of Modernity

Standing on a deserted street. The Buildings are dead mollusks, emptied out and hollow. Inside their halls I can hear the echo of millions of things yet to come. The future is bright and gloomy at the same time, as these buildings stand in the purgatory of our modern age. What will become of them? Who will they become? They stand on the edge of a great chasm, much like myself.

Resting in the quiet of the blue room, I am reminded of my deserted street. Sounds are hushed out as if in some holy temple. The silence of my places are so full and heavy, I find it hard to think, to breath, to live. I shrink on to the chair, feeling the incredible burden of this nothingness.

In some places time manages to escape reality. Some people see time as a constant, the ebb and flow of the tides, the rise and set of the moon, the tick and tock of a clock. But where I am, time forgets itself. Time stands still and speeds up. In the blue room, time stops to listen to the rain. I can feel my body slow down, my mind becomes serene. Deserted buildings and pictures are reminders that time can be frozen.

Standing on the street corner, with cars whizzing past me, I become lost in my environment. A couple holding hands stroll past me laughing at some clever joke. Across the street an old man, grayed by the heavy hold of time, props up a sign which begs for coins. Three boys eat noodles in a small Chinese restaurant behind the old man. The young man picks up a noodle, but before it reaches his mouth the noodle slips out of his chopstick grasp. I am standing there the observer of such a sliver of the world. My back aches and the car comes.

Kafka once wrote, “A cage went in search for a bird.”

Unheard

Alone in the smoky battle field I declare my victory. “Victory” -- my shout was picked up by the wind and carried across the field. Still, my glow, my elation was missed by all, and the words fell only on my own ears. The wild rye swayed undisturbed. I hosted my flag a little higher, determined to establish my presence.

Orange

In the late fall afternoon, when the sun is sagging in the sky, the rays of light get heavy with orange. They fall across my bed in patterns created by the trees outside my window. Heavy light and a heavy blanket feel comforting to me when the world feels unbalanced. I just lay on my bed and think. Many thoughts come forward through my head, linger, then get worked out. Some times I have so many thoughts at once, that to capture them is all is like trying to catch a flock of geese. I lay there and think.

The real world, however, does not wait.

Kafkaesque

You notice the pain in some ones eyes when they really need help. But you never notice your own. Sitting in your own personal prison, you want to shout for some one to help you to escape. Why am I held here you ask yourself? You have committed no crime, except keeping yourself hostage. Your crime is also your punishment.

The Coffee House

In the beginning we only met there by mistake. I would walk into the café and order my daily mocca with soy milk, and some times I would run into him. Through the corner of my eye I would notice his daily selection of the decafe latte. Sometimes I would stay a little bit longer in X and talk to the girl behind the counter. She and I went to high school together, and I would properly ask her about her new baby and her fathers heart condition, while also over hearing his order behind me. Every once in a while we would meet brush by each other, while leaving the coffee house. I would smile and say excuse me, and pass on.

In those days, I was intensely interested in this strange boy with short brown hair. He was so plain that anyone would have normally lost him in a crowd. Because he was so plain, it took me months to realize that he really existed. But once I singled him out, he was difficult to forget. I do not know what curiosity drew me to him, but I was always straining myself to hear his words as he order, “one tall decafe latte, to go please.”

Months went by and we both would cross paths, everyday, ordering coffee. This place, which, was supposed to be a meeting place, was nothing more then a train station where people entered and left.

The isolation those days was almost unbearable.