A man is sitting at the table in front of mine, reading his newspaper. I see him here often, always with the newspaper, or eating alone. He doesn't remember me, or if he does, he doesn't show it. His hair is white. Maybe that is part of the not remembering.
He is reading the Music section of the papers. What I know of him is that it's his job to open and lock up the gym. He likes to go to lectures and follow up on the latest advances in engineering. I think his name is Jim, but I can't be certain. Perhaps I've incorrectly remembered everything else as well.
If I wanted to know the facts I can go back to my journal from two years ago and find out. There would be many pages to flip through before I can find the night when something compelled me to turn around, to go back and sit down with the man who was reading the newspaper even then, sitting in a corner by himself. But there would be many pages to flip through.
That night I wanted to tell him something vast, but he heard nothing in particular. The sad thing is, I don't remember what he said either, so perhaps neither of us was listening to the other. There was a feeling of disappointment then, just like there is disappointment now sitting behind this man reading his newspaper, writing about him rather than talking to him. What was the point, I wonder. What was the point of that unreasonable, exhilarated expectation, flashing like sirens in my head.
But I've grown tired of talking. I am afraid to sit with strangers. And so many people are strangers after all. My life is very small. The number of people I can reach is small. The number of people who can reach me is smaller. Somehow though, a different state of things is conceivable. And yet, it's the conceivability, the seed of hope, that sometimes hurts the most.
He is reading the Music section of the papers. What I know of him is that it's his job to open and lock up the gym. He likes to go to lectures and follow up on the latest advances in engineering. I think his name is Jim, but I can't be certain. Perhaps I've incorrectly remembered everything else as well.
If I wanted to know the facts I can go back to my journal from two years ago and find out. There would be many pages to flip through before I can find the night when something compelled me to turn around, to go back and sit down with the man who was reading the newspaper even then, sitting in a corner by himself. But there would be many pages to flip through.
That night I wanted to tell him something vast, but he heard nothing in particular. The sad thing is, I don't remember what he said either, so perhaps neither of us was listening to the other. There was a feeling of disappointment then, just like there is disappointment now sitting behind this man reading his newspaper, writing about him rather than talking to him. What was the point, I wonder. What was the point of that unreasonable, exhilarated expectation, flashing like sirens in my head.
But I've grown tired of talking. I am afraid to sit with strangers. And so many people are strangers after all. My life is very small. The number of people I can reach is small. The number of people who can reach me is smaller. Somehow though, a different state of things is conceivable. And yet, it's the conceivability, the seed of hope, that sometimes hurts the most.
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