Emotions of the World of Senses

So this is strictly autobiographical. I have the alcohol intolerance of a two-year-old and the cynicism of a middle aged bachelor with a PhD. Sometimes I like to watch my neighbors in the evenings, when I can see the interiors of their kitchen and I especially enjoy listening to that child next door practising the piano. Call me crazy. I imagine the life behind those walls, like a second of condensed family history, all the troubles, fights, laughter, joy, celebration, sorrow in a moment. In an image. Observing is my métier. Strangely enough, my attention shifts from the fictional domestic drama to the details: father’s Montblanc shining in his hand as he writes a letter, mother’s curling iron and the wonders of her make-up kit, grandpa’s way of falling asleep while he reads the newspaper in an armchair. And suddenly the strangers next door become my own family.

On a different note: did you know I have a pair of glasses? I’m a little short sighted but I’ve come to the conclusion that one doesn’t need to see everything the world has to offer. Ignorance is bliss and still, I find myself reaching into the very blurry unknown and stumbling like an infant at his first walk. I wonder why I’ve tried so hard to let go of childlike naïveté: it is, after all, proof of strength rather than a form of infantile weakness. Just like social anxiety that’s supposed to go away as we grow up. Nevertheless, I still find myself having an uneasy feeling when I stand at a bus stop or go to a restaurant to eat alone. The feeling of being watched, perceived, observed, dissected, categorized, judged. Emptied of meaning.

Maybe I’m being overly dramatic here. That’s auto-biographic too, by the way.