I walk upon the earth as if drifting through an endless dream, my eyes scanning, searching, as if some hidden camera has been installed inside my skull. If only I could capture this moment exactly as I feel it, untouched by time or memory.
But
do the things I feel mean anything to anyone else?
What compels us humans to reveal our inner world to others? Are we
seeking those who might feel some kind of soul-kinship with
us?
“Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I’m here. I
understand you, my distant friend.”
Is that what I want
as well? And what are the odds that I would ever find that distant
friend?
If I were to share everything I have written with the world, would
I receive only laughter and ridicule? Or would there be, among the
mockers, some small person who feels they have encountered their own
soul?
“I don’t know you, but I understand you
completely. Our souls pulse at the same frequency.”
Would
that make me happy? Would it give me anything more than a smile, slowly crumbling in the silence?
To tell the truth, I am not even sure why I write my thoughts
down. Is this some kind of substitute for the gnawing feeling of
loneliness? Since I cannot speak to people, I speak to myself through
these writings. I whisper to myself: I am here, and so are
you.
We both exist; we simply do not know what we are—or
how to be whatever it is we are.
In the end, surely all of us long to form a genuine connection with at least one other soul in this vast ocean. Otherwise, our lives have no meaning.
I turn on the radio transmitter and try to reach the outside world. Years have passed without any response. I hear nothing but static.
YOU ARE ALONE
SOMETIMES
YOU WONDER IF YOU HAVE DIED WITHOUT REALIZING IT
BUT DEEP INSIDE, YOU KNOW THAT CANNOT BE TRUE
YOU ARE CERTAIN YOU ARE
ALIVE
YOU CAN FEEL YOUR HEART BEATING
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