As I walked through a clinical, modern transport terminal, I sensed white pillars supporting high ceilings and bright fluorescent lights shooting down at the crowds below. I distinctly felt that I had no power over my environment. I became aware of the equivocality of the state of consciousness I was in: I was 'I', an old man dragging a suitcase on wheels on top of which sat a small shoulder zip bag. I was going somewhere and my bags were packed full. The old man knew where he was going and he knew the contents of his bags. I did not. As I attempted to increase the pace of my steps, I grinned and moaned with anger. Suddenly a youngster swiftly grabbed the small shoulder bag and ran away. I tried to run after him; I focused all my strength into my upper thighs. But each step felt as if I had to lift legs numb from the knees down. As I endeavoured to climb the moving stairs of an escalator in pursuit of the thief, a young lady noticed my struggle and shouted to have him stopped. There was no reaction. As I reached the top of the escalator, I knew that my whole life was in that little bag. I had lost everything.
I was now wandering aimlessly through the large avenues of a city which resembled New-York. I was still holding on to the suitcase. Another old man was walking by my side. We were street companions. I had no place to go; I felt as grey as the city.
As we approached two churches facing each other from across the avenue, our legs ceased their slow motion. The church in front of us, standing on the right side of the avenue, was made of light grey bricks. It was tall and clear, in a strangely bright, Victorian Anglican style. On the front facade of the second church a large rosace window echoed the curved arches of the basalt walls. As we watched people queuing in and out of the churches, I said to my companion: 'regarde, regarde, ces cathédrales qui nous sont refusées'. I began to cry. There was no deeper sorrow. I fixed my eyes on the black church and whispered: 'je veux mourir'. At this very moment my ego reclaimed its throne and I forced myself out of the dream. I was still crying when I woke up, filled with an old man's sorrow.
My bedroom was filled with sunlight and within a few minutes his sorrow turned into a mere pinching in my heart. I wiped the tears off my cheeks.
I only know one thing for certain: as I saw through his eyes and felt through his body, it was my soul that was crying.
<© asd – 2009>
