Falco B.’s Balloon
At this crossroad of travelling none of our minds choose to be here, only our bodies do. Passing through a chaos of other bodies, but our souls already arriving at the destination we desire. I have grown fond of the train station I pass through so often. Its high ceiling, natural light and open space bring a sense of freedom. The station offers something different which I can relish for the short period of forty seconds I now have to catch my next train. There’s a sense of physicality in all the bodies passing mine. The secluded souls of single travellers sometimes giving a glimpse into their inner world raging. Sometimes in accident, sometimes maybe not. It has become my sport to unravel these looks that pass me in a flash.
There’s a world of worlds walking around in the train station, but every one is self-contained and locked off from outsiders trying to pry it open with their eyes. Every so often there is a moment of contact when eyes meet. The mirror of their soul’s black centre briefly touching mine makes me wonder if there is any way of ever finding out what’s behind. Maybe that is why eye contact is avoided in public transportation, the privacy of one’s inner world kept for themselves without colliding with the other hundreds, thousands, of universes floating about the place, at risk of exposure. But in my attempts to make collisions happen I began to realise that there is no way. The obsession to experience the world through someone else’s eyes will never be fully satisfied. I will never find out if the sights I see, the sounds I hear or smells are the same as I experience them. If the colour of the walls may be different in her eyes, or his. If the appearance of the body my mind occupies is any like the reflection I see in the morning.
My body moves in autopilot, my spirit, occupying a different space, is not concerned with where I am going. The autonomy of my flesh and blood isolates my mind and I realise I am but a guest of this prison, by name called Falcon B.. I did not choose my stay and neither can I escape it. In my final steps towards my train I feel as if my soul has become a balloon that floats atop its padrone and looks down upon it. The feet I see take steps onto the train, and hands grab the banisters to help itself to a seat. I am but observing, suspended by a string that connects and disconnects me from my host. And as it takes a seat I realise that, let alone understanding another world, I hardly understand my own. The image my mind projects could be as false as any other and I feel as if the world could at any moment, shed away its illusions and swallow me in a void of darkness. The body I once knew now distant stranger to me, my soul trapped inside, until its last thought.