X tells me that last night he was given to see as clearly as a child’s lesson that he’s an escapist, but now he forgets why exactly. What was it I was escaping from? he aks. I work hard, so it can’t be that, can it? he asks. He could work harder, he supposes, he could get up at six and take on more responsibilities. He could get a dog, or a family, even a mortgage, choose life, choose a future. From life, he supposes, he’s an absentee from life. Or from himself, maybe, maybe he’s playing truant from himself. Or from me, is that it? he asks. Maybe he should get involved in local politics, he says.
Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
Notes for a fragmentary novel entitled The Moment, linked at the top of the page.
- Follow Notes from a Room on WordPress.com