Mirror, Desert And Mirror
Not Being Here
Here I am. Everywhere I look—north, south, close, and far—I see the same thing. An unusual position to be in, an unusual place too; but is it a place at all? Is it the place that doesn’t change or is it boredom—my mind busily extinguishing all difference out there? There’s a mirror in boredom and the reflection makes it impossible to distinguish between myself and the place I’m in. Somewhere along in time I started to look the other way. Maybe it was in the beginning. Maybe I started out looking the other way and that’s why I can’t recognize the place I’m in. Or maybe I just haven’t come to a place that draws me out. Maybe I’ve only been in a place that keeps me seeing in, not out, and as long as I’m in a place like this I may never arrive.
I was walking for some time. It felt like a circle, I was the center. The sameness of the place obsessed me. It was hard to believe that anything out there could be so uniform. I’d look out, out from between my partially opened lids, each view framed and ticked by my lashes. But the lashes made it clear, they were my lashes, they were a part of me. They moved when I moved. They distinguished me, assuring that I was not the place I was in.
Here I am, I’m thinking about something, I’m thinking around something not here, about looking slowly, almost staring. I’m sweating even though it’s cold out. My gaze lingers on things not here, my gaze mingles wonder at the nothing out here and the distance of what’s inside me. And even though I haven’t arrived yet I wonder what I’m doing here.
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