I'm in
the middle of a travelling crowd. We are the XXI Century Pilgrims. We don't
know each other. Our "we"-ness, our shared identity has a clear
beginning and a gradual end. Some of us look at each other, stare at the world
passing by, or dive into the pond of unconsciousness, oblivion.
For
practical reasons, we are extremely close to each other, very much like clovers
in a field. I can smell their sweat, their perfume -in very scant cases-, their
breath; I can take in the life they exude and they can embrace mine. If close
enough, I can touch you, 65-year-old
married man whose mind was silently borrowed by Morpheo for a while, at least.
I can feel the flower- scented hair of the late-twenties woman standing next to
me, holding a voluptuous flower arrangement. I can identify the lust, the
desire in the thirtyish, office worker's eyes; I feel it too. We don't give in, for some reason. I imagine
I feel his want, his blood in flux, his energy within me.
But, of
course, this is just me, and my gaze. Maybe I only see what I want to believe.
Maybe this guy is just tired after a whole week of hard work. Maybe the man on
my right is trying to rest his eyes. Maybe the woman is a kindergarten teacher.
Maybe
we're not a travelling crowd after all.
Maybe
it's time I get off the bus.
