The invisible man
This is a story I made up to comment on the troubles we face in reconciling the internal with the external worlds.
Why is it so bright? The room is more spacious than before. Did I renovate it last evening? That would explain why I am not used to the increased levels of light. The walls are made out of glass. The entire house is. How? I have no memory of changing my place outright. What I have been doing is incremental refinements. Nothing makes sense here. Yet it feels oddly familiar. Unconventional, yes, albeit austere in its presentation. Were I to draw a design with such a style, I would do it this way. But I did not. Yesterday was just another day of me carrying out my routines. It was the same as the day before and so on as far I can recall. Life is uneventful in these parts. Years go by and all I can say is “more of the same.” The paths I take during my walks are the ones I always tread. The activities I engage in are equally predictable. Even the reply I give to questions about my latest news is increasingly formulaic: “things are stable and I am happy” followed by a smile.
Where we are is the result of where we have been. It is the inevitable combined cumulative effect of our choices and the happenstances we have been subject to. There is no means of undoing what has transpired. A change of direction is the second best alternative. It is what gives us hope and inspires us to try again. Perhaps to be someplace else or to become another, even if only marginally so. If we observe our behaviour we can learn from it and work on the parts we do not like. Yet we do not get to choose what we bear witness to. Equipped with self-awareness, we explore the depths of our soul, unearthing rare minerals, as it were, and discovering unspoken wealth. In our naivety, we have no idea what kind of monsters lurk in the depths. The discovery of whatever glitters incentivises us to continue and to ignore the risks. There always are limits though. Those who defy them suffer the consequences of their inability or unwillingness to stop when they ought to. They should have paid attention to the signs including the most obvious one of the ferocious three-headed hound. Some never do, perhaps because only those who have the mental fortitude to push the boundaries ever get to figure out where those are. We have to avoid digging too deep into our psyche for there lies an enriching world that is not ours; a world whose prevailing conditions grow increasingly inimical to our presence the deeper we reach; a world that is so close to us yet decisively otherworldly; a world that will make us miserable. To know yourself too much is to have seen the parts of it you cannot undo. Hope is the first casualty.
Avoid some preoccupations to be able to channel your energy to the activities you care about the most, but do not eliminate them from your life. Always do something. Create situations that require upkeep and commit to their maintenance. Tend to them with care and return to them with unmistakable regularity. Idleness gives us enough time to direct our focus inward, since nothing out there calls for it. If we are lucky, we will not go too far to where the unspoken horrors dwell and only take back with us some of the wealth available there. Yet we have no map of this domain, no clear idea of where the borders lie. Some adventurers are concealed in the most conspicuous of places. It is not their body that does the exploring, but their heart which longs for states of affairs that differ from the ones they are immersed in. The most competent and daring among them will go farther than the furthest edges. They will only be brought back to us by whatever commitments still bind them to this place. It is those activities we all need to ultimately have a reason to stick around while we can.
A man of ideas is a man who hides in the open. When others find him, he directs their attention to the corpus of theories he has elaborated on and keeps them preoccupied with matters of thought. His fallback plan once the discussion becomes personal is to put up that familiar smile and utter the words “same as usual; good!” Nobody would be interested enough to ask about the details of what appears to be a dull life. Such is the assumption. Hiding like this is a form of wanting to be discovered, except it is more eclectic than merely seeking attention. There is a filter designed to keep the indecisive ones out. Only those who are keen on finding the innermost self will bother to circumvent whatever obstacles they encounter. The rest will not consider it worth their time.
Why would anyone go through the travails? Do those culminate in some supremely valuable reward? Or is the person in hiding mistaken as they labour under the delusion that there is something special about them? Some of us think we hold a treasure deep inside and our unspoken wish is that a person worthy enough will eventually find it. The strategy is to wait indefinitely for that adventurer who will not only look into their own depths but into ours as well. Every so often we peek through the window to check if anybody is approaching. The dirt roads are always quiet, while the boisterous avenues are never about us. With no-one in sight, we go back to playing our waiting game. The most valuable resource we can expend is our moments. To give you my undivided attention is to shower you with that which I have the least of. There is no substitute for it, no memento nor gift that will ever be as worthy. Whomever spends their vitality searching for you is essentially making a sacrifice. Their effort is proof of their commitment. Alas, time is not kind to those who live in waiting. It relentlessly defaces everything that finds currency in our world. Whatever worth we think we have is, at best, short-lived and less important than we make it out to be. If we guard it too well, we all but guarantee it goes to waste.
We can fear success just as much as failure. This happens when we grow accustomed to the state of our inertia. To wait is to not take the initiative and to hope that the world will deliver all we think we deserve. The uneventful life is at once a regret and an achievement of the highest order; the regret of not having tried to introduce a change; the achievement of tolerating, indeed befriending, boredom. For those accustomed to waiting, the challenge is whether their regret remains such or turns into guilt and then despair. All that happens is a matter of timing, of being in the right place at the right time. Such is the intersection of choice and fortune which inevitably opens up some possibilities while ruling out others. Certain places are simply too far away even if they can be conceived of as the “right” ones for us. We will not be there when it matters. Patience cannot hold back the effects of time. Some gaps are unbridgeable. Whenever we cannot recognise them, a couple of decades apart will help us see how far off the mark our target is. The fear of success grips us each time we desire to break the cycle but cannot muster the courage to try what we understand is necessary. Our potential despair is that we do not know how to get rid of what we have become. We have assumed as our own a version of our selfhood which is content with feeling unfavoured and ignored.
The hidden man who is not prepared to make the requisite changes will probably panic if somebody gets close to his true location. He may have the skills to venture off all alone into the murkiest depths, yet therein lies his weakness and strength: solitude is his only long-term companion. He never had to have a partner in his excursions. Perhaps he never dared to try. To be with another requires that you slow down. Did he never want it though? Or was his adventure nothing but a flight from the attempt? Is each new trip of his but an excuse to not remain still out of a concern that his position has been compromised? When the heart does all the work, the body forgets how it is to act. Success inspires fear just as much as failure because both will upset the status quo. Some belief will be proven wanting, inviting another to take its stead. In remaining hidden so well for so long, the man has turned invisible, which condemns him henceforth to never be discovered. When he figures it out, it will be too late for him to become another.
What am I even thinking? These thoughts are not mine. Just like the very place I am standing in, they have somehow been thrust upon me. Yet I cannot dismiss them as alien. They do feel familiar. Maybe they are manifestations of long suppressed feelings or the inklings of what is to be elucidated. Recollection or premonition? Is there even a difference in a world that never starts and ends? The thoughts do not stop and I am powerless to withhold them.
To be found, to be recognised, to be noticed… all express the same yearning for a connection, for partaking in an experience, for saying nothing as you communicate everything. Forget the grand events. The little things suffice. How nice would it be to observe the birds while resting under the shade of the oak trees! A moment in eternity is enough when it is sincere. Is that too much to ask for? And then, as the sun sets and the nightingales sing, to express heartfelt gratitude for having been there together. At that very place we discovered the space where our separate lives were indistinguishable. To find a fellow traveller requires that you are journeying. Not to the depths though. Stay above ground where the rest are. Some paths converge only to split off into divergent directions again, while others remain united as far as the eye can see. We cannot foretell which will be the road we meet on and end up with: it will all be with the benefit of hindsight. The meeting is more likely to occur if we share the same disposition to roam the open vistas while accepting serendipity. So what if there is nobody there? We keep going. It just has to happen once. Within glass walls there is nothing but stasis. Only museum exhibits are kept there, for every passer by to see but for none of them to touch. Once you escape the room, you can at least tell yourself that you did your part. Will it matter if it comes to nought? You will only know if you try.
As these ideas turn into words, I feel compelled to exit this place. Why would I ever stay in a transparent room? Is this the logical continuation of my eagerness to live in accordance with my precepts? Am I now supposed to prove that hiding in the open is tenable? I am here already so it seems I have no choice in the matter. Let me then suspend my disbelief as to how this came to be and take on the challenge. To find the others. Surely this is not too hard.
Oh, I am naked! Where did I even leave my clothes? There is no furniture in sight. Nothing beside this bed. No sheets. Just a mattress. It too is stripped down to its essentials. Anybody can see me now for who I actually am. There is no more pretending I am not an animal. Or can they? How would they be able to discern the person within the body by observation alone? Is this not how anyone can hide in the open by giving others an impression which ultimately brings to the surface their preconceived notions? The naked ones will be judged, sure, and will be called mean words. Witnesses will all have an opinion about the spectacle. There will be a lot of talking regarding propriety that will engender heated debates. Yet none of it will be about who the person is. All such talk revolves around an avatar, the idol of a human, that which is pictorial and representational in its nature. The specific body then becomes but a proxy for all possible bodies. Despite its quality as a particular, it reveals the universal it partakes of. It is the latter we all discern only to then turn to our own particulars. First impressions can be wrong and thus make for unreliable final conclusions. We know. Though I wonder who cares the most about getting a second chance in this regard. Do we even establish that first contact which creates the conditions for more of them. How will anybody get past the surface level if they have missed that to begin with?
I cannot recognise my surroundings. They are not how I remember them to be. I must have been extra productive yesterday. The whole area is cleared from all vegetation. I also flattened the land it seems. I feel no pain though. None whatsoever. Doing all this with my trusty pickaxe would have surely placed tremendous stress on my muscles. I seem alright and feel at the peak of my strength. At any rate, I have to do something about this situation. Clothes or no clothes, I must work with the information available to me. I am naked in a see-through room. How embarrassing! I need to dress up and figure out where I am. Then prepare for my return to the life I had. I even am fuzzy about that right now. What was it like and what would I even do with it? If the place we are is the result of where we have been, if past actions have led me to this point, then returning to the prior state is surely going to either lead me nowhere I want to be or put me in the same predicament as this one. Scenaria! There are too many of them. I shall act and figure it all out as I go.
What are those cypress trees doing there? They must have been growing for decades. The ones I planted are less than two years old. That trail to their side leads to what appears to be a sports complex. At its other end is a workshop dealing with heavy machinery of some kind. I will head rightward as I can see people playing tennis. It is humiliating to approach them in this condition, but I have no better option. They might know where we are. Maybe they will even be kind enough to offer some garment to a fellow athlete. Even a towel is better than nothing. “Hello folks! I just need the name of this place.” I am speaking as loud as I can. They are absorbed in their game. Seems fun. “Not to bother you. It is not important anyway. Cheers!” Tennis must be an engrossing activity. They both seem to have not noticed me. Probably I need to be more forceful. At least I tried.
Opposite the court is a kiosk. I can discern five lads forming a circle. Whatever it is they are talking about, they will surely spare a few seconds for me. “Good day fellas! I am a tourist visiting your beautiful country. I think I lost my way. Perhaps you can help me get back to my hotel?” They speak in a foreign tongue. I cannot make sense of it. The topic must be too important to them given how animated they are. I will pretend nothing happened. “Oh, silly me! My phone has a maps app. I can be so absentminded sometimes… Not to be a burden though. Bye!” What am I even saying? I carry nothing with me. More importantly though, why is nobody responding?
Third time is the charm. The workshop is probably where I will find some help. The mechanics are good at solving problems and tend to have situational awareness. They will offer me the hints I need to press on with my quest. One of them is working with a battery, while another checks an exhaust pipe. “This is a fine piece of machinery you got there mate. I remember how exhilarating it was to drive my motorcycle to distant lands.” Engineers require focus to do their work properly. I am aware that interrupting them is not nice. Probably not acknowledging me is their way of communicating how busy they are. “Was on my way out. Take care!”
Having not found any answers, I am left where I started. What I have learnt in the meantime is that the people here do not interact with me. I can come up with several reasonable explanations, though none matters. The point is that whatever I do, I have to do it alone, hoping that one of my attempts will produce a different result than what I have been getting. It is all trial and error. Sometimes we withdraw from the world only to find out the world withdrew from us.