Four years ago I was somebody. I made a lot of words in those days. I was a word maker. Talking talking talking talking. Writing writing writing writing writing. Talking and writing. In my defense, there were people who wanted to hear me. There was even a group of people who paid me to talk to them every Sunday morning. It was a straight-up gig. On the level. I made words for people.
So many words. So very many words.
So I was at the talking place one Sunday morning, doing my talking thing, when I began to feel that I had said enough. My mouth slowly closed until it was small and round, like the mouths of the kids singing at the end of A Charlie Brown Christmas. And then my lips came together and no more words wanted to come out.
I could not make those kinds of words anymore. So I backed away from the microphone. I kept backing up until I had backed all the way out of the room and into the parking lot. I backed into my car, drove it backwards all the way home, and backed into a dark closet. I wrapped myself in a thick blanket of nobody, and I haven’t come out since.
nobody to fix
nobody to heal
nobody to care for
nobody to feel
nobody needs me
nobody sees me
nobody hears me
nobody feeds me
I am nobody. I am not a body.
These days I wander around looking at the world in new ways. And I’m watching all the busy and important bodies walking fast and talking even faster. I don’t know where they are going. I don’t know why they are in such a hurry. And I don’t know what they are saying. It’s probably the same stuff I used to say, but I’m not sure because their words don’t make sense to me. I cannot make sense. Of their words.
I seem to not know things now. I am not able to know the things that other people know.
I live in a state of unknowing.
But I know I’m not alone. Now that I’m off the main road and not moving so fast, I see footprints meandering here and there and trailing off into the woods. I feel the presence of someone else. Another nobody.
There’s a pair of us.