I think I’m connecting with you. In fact, I’m just interacting with a machine. But what difference does it make if I change the medium? If I write you a letter or call you on the phone? There is always an intermediate. Even when we meet and have a face-to-face conversation, words still separate us.
Another party, cheep bears and non-stop catching up, smoke smoke smoke, weed weed weed, bad music, how was your trip, it was nice, what did you do, it’s really cool, play play play, fun fun fun, fuck the exams, wish I had studied more, easy hugs, alcohol split all over the place, room filled with smoke.
Sometimes I joined a party just for the people, because I like people in ‘my’ group. Not anyone in particular, but them as a whole. I never genuinely wanted to, but I just went and at some point, I would be in the mood for a few drinks. But today there was nothing. Perhaps it was not the same people that I’d got used to. Perhaps I was just sleepy and tired. But this time there was something different. I knew exactly what was going on with me. I didn’t know why I joined at first place, maybe I was expecting something to happen, like all the other times, that it would distract me for a while and even lift up my mood. Maybe a little voice inside me was saying that I could use a drink to forget. That was when I knew that I didn’t want to forget. I wasn’t looking for anything. It wasn’t even an effort to socialize and to belong. It became very apparent for me that I didn’t want any of this. Not a shadow of doubt. Something has changed forever after last week. After the new year’s eve that felt like apocalypse, after the morning when I nearly passed out in the bathroom and lied lifelessly in the kitchen, after the paper that I thought I would never finish, and after the impulsive, dreamlike, almost unreal trip to Paris. Something is reigning in me now, I wouldn’t say calm, rather an indifference toward nonsense. A sense of senselessness, not about my existence but about other people’s. I just see it very clearly now and don’t feel any unease about it. Like I’ve been imprisoned this whole time, and I’m finally released.
Moon on one side, Venus on the other. It was a full moon night. The moon was strikingly bright as if she wanted to murder you with her light. In the middle of the crowd, I kept hearing that song in my head and was seized by the desire to go on a solitary walk and sit on a bench to listen to the whole album including that song. The weather was unusually warm for a January night, dry and windy, like a late autumn day, so I took advantage of this weather to resume my habit of taking late night walks. Clouds were floating in high speed over the moon. The sky was agitated, yet the moon stayed still and firm, like a love that refused to fade. If forever had a form, it would be the full moon.
My steps led me to the lake nestled in the parcel of woods that constituted a part of my university’s campus. A starry sky opened up above me. Spots of light reflected in the lake kept twinkling because the water was gently, but very gently, rippling. The area around the lake was sunk in darkness. I sat at the foot of an age-old tree and stared at it for a while until it got too cold, so I headed home. The music kept me warm on the way back.
All of the sudden I realized how real all of this was. For years I’ve been struggling with being present, for I’ve always felt like my life is somewhere else. But this is real, and I’m absorbed in present. The same way my relationship with coffee is grounded in the present moment. My mind didn’t wander to anywhere else when I watched the moon and the stars tonight. There was no one to miss. In fact, the reason I was there at first place was because I wanted to be alone. Not to run away from something, but to be by myself. I wasn’t longing for a company I couldn’t have. I’d certainly love to. I’d die to. But it was fine if the circumstances didn’t allow it. Je m’en vais, je m’en vais. The sadness has turned into something else, not positive, but at least less tragic. I can’t quite grasp what it is. All I know is that it’s as clear and still as the full moon that I met tonight.
The moon is often associated with illusion because her light isn’t her own. But what difference does it make whether the light that we see comes from the source or not? In the end, we see the same thing, because it’s our eyes. It’s not the moon the illusion, but our trust in vision. Seeing. It’s misleading from the start. Our illusion becomes our truth, and it’s the only reality we know. There’s no other reality than the one that surrounds us, the one that we’re seeing, sensing, breathing. Our own physicality and spirituality.
Maybe it explains the disconnection that I feel toward people and how I don’t make any effort to cure it, or even to question it. Because I finally come to term with it. I recognize it. It’s not something wrong or alien. It’s real. Or more exactly, it’s my reality.