Are there spaces which are not lonely spaces? In the long night it is suddenly difficult to extend my empathy to any position which is not utterly solitary. Does the world, as such, truly exist? Not plants and rocks and oceans; if I have doubt of them, this is not the place for it. But the world, as we mean it, of people; is it even slightly more than an illusion?
I dream that I wake in a town which appears to be abandoned. Entering the street, I find all sorts of postings. Old, yellowed, rain-soaked papers are stapled and stuffed everywhere, but every bit of handwriting is different. Furthermore, every author seems as illusory as the last. Still, in my desperation, I take the words to heart, I learn to speak them to myself as I move through the ghosted world. Never do I see a soul; always am I assured we have just been proven, each to the other.
Are there spaces which can contain two beings? I dream there are, dream that I remember being, my being and another being, in some tangled moment as if the walls of the world did not prevent all such unions. But from where did I glean these memories? Are they real, and if so, are they mine? Did they grow, like moss, from the mere suggestion of some phantom flier pasted to a telephone pole? Are they recent, ancient, immemorial? How long have I been wandering?
Some hands built the world, it seems. But have I seen hands ever? Or am I merely projecting, as the saying goes?
Image from the Serial Experiments: Lain game for Playstation
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