Days go by very quiet in here. If I don’t make any movement, the murmuring of the people (sometimes ruthless) is gone almost without noticing. But it’s hard. In order to answer a question, make a request or write even a note, you need to put off-center yourself for few seconds, which sometimes become minutes, and when is required by the situation and it is unavoidable -no matter all the chamaleon efforts drawn up through years-, even a pair of hours. On those days (that I prevent with all the subtlety typical of my own species), I feel the abnormal sensation that I have been dragged out in the open, over a minefield, where for each step I get well-aimed blows and shoves, every single one willing to make me fall, for coming to an end torn with no possible hope.
There was a time vastly worse, however. I keep a few traces from then here and there, tattered and piecemeal memories that, under the lens of the distance and a kind of blurred distortion, are turned into abortions, overwhelming an occasional night and some dreams. Especially on busiest days. They were times of smells, touches and howls full of ravings and scares. Times of running through the jungle of the days, of unsurmountable routine from the classrooms and lessons, of vomiting words as huge bulks made of stones, drained till the madness. Then came this peace and quietness. Or something like that, at least. If I don’t make any movement.
And I don’t. In fact, I have forgotten how to do it. Or it’s just that I don’t want to remember it anymore. It feels so good in here. In the middle of everything and nowhere. Rocked by the silence of myself, centered into an activism that, more than anything else (or what it seems), it’s a flight and a way of stillness, and a chosen isolation. And why shouldn’t I choose it? Among the merciless gale of the world, I chose the most reasonable thing. Other ones chose the fear, the pain, the dreams, the ambition, the violence; some of them even the hope. None of them was condemned to the insanity or the aloofness; for some of them even were builded monuments, and were asked ovations. For us, on the contrary, always was the oddly, unpleasantly or pitiful glance. Then I learned not to make any movement. To say the bare minimum, to give the correct answer, to be efficient and productive, and then get back to my shell. A role model, they say, a role model. And they let me be what I am.
But I cannot remember them anymore. To my fellows (if they ever were). Neither they remember me. One day I will be gone and no one will be there to remember who was he. No one will ask where he went, or what was happened to him. Not even will be remembered what was my place in this world. I will have a no-place, at last, well earned and well deserved it. And I will sink into the nothingness, into the sidereal anonymity, where not even the vastest silence will come to disturb the quietness of one who never was.