In times of solitude, loneliness, overwhelming, or even connection, I have always imagined something such as this:
I take a seat on the opposite side of you, arriving in a hurry. I fling my bag on the table, or whatever surface nearby, explaining in a flurry of words the excuses to why I’m late, or asking a flurry of questions, never making eye contact. And then you look up, amidst the obstructions I create in front of me, constantly in action, rummaging and laying bare the contents of my bag, sighing in disappointment as if something was supposed to be pressed between sheets of paper or stuck between layers of fabric, I knew whatever I appear to be looking for is not there, I am trying to lose something in all this mess. I sense your gaze, and I scamper through my things some more, I feel my face flare up, calculating when your gaze would shift, waiting for a sigh, then I could look up and ask about your day. But you don’t shift your gaze, you don’t sigh, you lift your arm, I shudder in anticipation and fear: you knew something, and I have said nothing. You put a hand on my shoulder, and I stop rummaging. Finally, I looked up, and all I could read in your eyes was me. I can’t believe your eyes are holding me, it was like I finally knew what I looked like, undistorted by a medium. I tear up. I open my mouth, not to speak, but so my body is as open as possible, a gaping wound. Water seeped from the deepest soil in my mind, waves lapped at the crumbling bricks of sand, all the architecture of infinite minutia and construction washed and rubbed in every corner. The water gushes out of every opening in me, through my ears, through my nose, through my mouth, from under my eyes, dark red filthy liquid drenched me. I didn’t have to gather them into a neat ocean for you. I sob and choke on the liquid, vomiting out more and more. In the sticky broth float corpses of words in stunted limbs and rumpled contenance, how faceless they are. You sit with your hand draped on my shoulder, so I don’t flow away. You said nothing, but from that day on, I was flushed clean. I could stretch my body out on the beach of consciousness, roll around in the sand or fall into eternal sleep. You could choose to never look at me again, it doesn’t matter. You have seen what I could not make myself see, what no one wanted to see, and now there’s nothing more to see.
My experiences became a construction of this one synthetic memory, I see a color to the lighting, a color to my backpack, but not you. From a certain age, everyone I met became a face I try to plant into this synthetic memory. Whose eyes were deep enough to hold me? Yet behind the face I sewed onto you, I knew there were expressions I didn’t want to see. Disgust, confusion, bewilderment, fear. So I wave away the image, stop rummaging through my things, clasp my hand, and stare out into the void, listening to whatever words chose to hang to my ears. I picked out muscles, arranged them, then pinched and stretched them to form expressions and responses, but the only sound I could hear was the water in my mind, asking me if it was finally time. Not now, not now, I would say, and learn how to smile.
Sometimes the water gets demanding, so I shield my eyes and cup my hands, gather a tiny pool, show it to them, and let them watch me splash the murky liquid into the bushes nearby. Then I turn away and look into the void, trying to find a face in that blinding white.
Sometimes they would pull me in for a hug, or I would pull them in, and I rub some of the red liquid on the back of their shirts, hoping it doesn’t stain through.
Then the water really brims, so I stuff balls of tissue in my ears and nose and mouth. I couldn’t hear much if they were talking, so I learned to nod, and plead with my eyes.