real, Anonymous

Anonymous

real

“By exchanging self and object, we can project ourselves onto the other and gain self-consciousness.” From Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore, a wholly mediocre book

as i am the object, you are the person—and vice versa— and then we swap realities: i become Real for you and you become Real for me, and together we affirm that mutual Reality.

then suddenly, it’s not all in my head! in years of living as barely more than a ghost, where even the air i inhale stands still, and my touch is forever frozen cold, suddenly, i’m made of flesh and of moving blood and of bone; suddenly, the space i pass through shifts, and the ground beneath me bends, and my body really is my own!

i’m just so Real now, right? i raise this mirror to see what you have seen, the dual lines of touch and of gaze, both yours, that have set the contours of my face, finally given shape by you. but even as i lift that glass in joy and in hope, i can’t deny, steadily creeping from below, that some latent part of me is still thrown

because here’s the horrible, gutted truth i’ve spent so, so, so long trying to ignore— though you can tell me that i’m Real over and over until we both grow grey and old, and though my mind can desperately want that perfect lie to hold, though i have never been closer to embodying such a sacred role, and in a brief moment, i had almost crossed that one threshold—

it’s impossible to ignore you couldn’t reflect or refract or swap in any of me, for my breath remains dull, and my touch still isn’t warm; dimly, i wonder if anyone will ever be up to the task as i stare into the mirror, darkly revealing that eternal lack of form— still just that constant, stagnating air, nothing but frozen space standing alone— so though we came close to Reality, my friend, i guess i couldn’t help it: i’m that same old, unchanging, ever-barren unknown.