So I’m sitting in this room right, and it’s this big grand circle. Everyone’s looking at the floor. There’s tension, you know, for sure, just seething beneath all our seats, microwaving our ass cheeks. I’m thinking ” holy shit is this is one strange intervention” but I’m trying to be serious right, so I copy every solemn face around me.
Out of the blue, though, each one slowly lifts their hands. I’m thinking “hell no, I’d rather keep my sweaty pits to myself”. Their mouths edge outwards, about to introduce themselves and I look up and would you believe, my hand is up too. All of it begins to feel like a haze or a foggy facade. I’m mirroring and following without thinking. I mean, I’m kind of scaring myself silly here, you know. That tension returns but more potent this time, like an incense or heat. It can only be felt and I don’t know how, but it just strikes a chord with me, internally and wholeheartedly. It’s freaky, mind you, but then again within this silence we’re all sharing something. An emotion.
All these strangers around me, feel me. They know what I’m going through, they know the extent, the depth of this feeling. I feel the need to ask a question but I stop myself, just like all of them do; we’re all stopping ourselves short before speaking. A dumb show of waiting and anticipating and looking oddly at each other and then they lower their hands and they either smile or shrug or cry ’cause it’s a sour tragedy. It’s sad. A beautiful tragedy that we pass each other every day, every moment, feeling the exact same ways, sharing the same anxieties and fears but we leave one another to our own devices. I wish someone would stop all the traffic and just start pitching a tent right in the intersection. Honking and beeping and swearing but this guy is just chilling in his tent flinging his middle finger to the lights, not the cars. Wouldn’t that be funny? I’m not the only one who looks in the mirror and feels separated from themselves am I? I know everyone washes their face or puts on their make up and then takes a minute to look at themselves. The longest minute of their lives.
My eyelashes linger in salty tears for a second before my lids pry them open. It’s blurry for a moment. Then I look up, I look at their faces. They’re all me. That’s me when I was five, holding onto that eraser I stole from the supermarket. That’s me with grey hair, with a bottle of gin in my hand. That’s me, my left foot dangling in a cast after I jumped a flight of stairs when someone told me I couldn’t. That’s me right now. Why is she not looking at me? All of them are ignoring me. That’s my face on each of their faces. These Horcruxes that I barely relate to and I judge. I criticize and question every part of me as though it’s another person. Is this the answer? How did this intervention become an introspection?
A pathological identity crisis. I guess nobody understands that kind of loneliness, you know, when you can’t even talk to yourself. It’s all more than I dream, I know that.