They’re telling me their stories. Friends, relatives, people in the tram, lady from the recycling yard ready for the ball dance, bank clerk, tomcat in jeans .
After two minutes, only two minutes, they tell me all the truth about themselves, things they would never tell, how they feel about things, what torns them apart and hurts them secretly. They line up a variety of maladies, their own and their loved ones (and they are always ours): that one and this one suffer from eating disorder, that one from behavioral disorder, this and that one from lack of conversation and consequently suffering from loneliness, these have a dysfunctional sexual relationship, this dear, gentle one has a hormone disorder, a lack of serotonin, this one suffers from lack of confidence so engages in unhealthy relationships with superiors, that one stuffs himself with everything and suffers from eating disorder, and is alone in the world, that one is as cold as ice, treats his family like metal sticks – has a temperature disturbance of emotion, that disgraceful woman spoiled her daughter and now her daughter smears walls with her – disturbances in all rainbow colors …!
In addition this pressure varies as an elevator in a skyscraper of two hundred and twenty floors, that one so smart that he cannot find a friend, these ones have five apartments and they live as tenants, to this one nothing is worth it, this one wants something, but doesn’t know what, doesn’t know. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA !!!!!!!!
I listen to such stories, a little bit here, and a little in places where one would not expect to hear any stories. And I wonder how many people there are in this white world and how many disorders. I want to tell about it to somebody. That, how strange it actually is. In fact. How the summer is outgoing so are some better versions of us too. How the fogs bring silence and how in the forest the foliage falls instead of rain. How the dawn comes into the day without a bird’s announcement, how the concerts of heavenly flyers in October have quieted, how the tree’s roots knits underground sweaters, and the smell of the sea becomes a distant noise in the ear. And just when I want to tell about it, I see that nobody wants to hear about it. That I do not have anybody to whom to tell. That, about the strangeness of matter. And I realize that the world is full of choices and that I suffer too. From the most horrible disorder. Regardless of the possibility of choice. Listen while there is still time. I admit, I have a listening disorder. Maybe Vincent was not crazy.
Solitude is a blessing. Silence is a balm. Egoism, the canker of today’s man, and paradox is my truth. The narrator tells draped with the veil of silence.