AT NIGHT AND ON THE ROAD
A lost man, at the edge of fingertips. The nether-you, introduced: “Ohh, ha-ha, that’s you?” A whispering gas, who speaks but is not heard, whose statements ignored, who floats in the terrible half-space, between real men who speak solid brick.
Who reflects on the odd situation. On the acid he’s become, to certain—the people who assume that he’s become another man, it’s odd. There are those who see you and know you are you. Then the ones you thought you met, who you had in your head, but who—float you off. At the first sign of change, the personality (yours) you know is the same, unmet.
When I see a man floating off, my eyeballs roll to his eyeballs. I direct words to him. I smile at even his half-jokes, trailed. If he says nothing, he has statements pointed at his head. That he can keep, that are his. You listen to his words, because his slim words mean more, in that situation, they take more effort to make, you push your ego down, you let the man in.
You do not put up a thick ego wall. You do not disassociate from the man you know, or your neighbour at the table. You do not let his words choke off. You do not choke him off, for your own bon mots, you do not pretend he does not exist.
Those things you only do if you need a certain thing. You do that if, when you have a conversation, when you are with friends, you still have something to prove. You do that if you are a small man, who worries about himself, who thinks nothing is better than him, who says if you can’t keep up you aren’t a real thing. It’s fine that you don’t know me. But know what it means to continue to not know, I was a friend.