The lamp on the desk, the glow of the laptop, the red light from the kettle: isn’t this the same light I stared at and craved while walking the streets?
I never thought about the person sitting behind the window when taking a picture. All that mattered was the light: delineating the borders of the hive, setting the distance between the neighbour and me.
This strong desire of getting lost among millions, as if I were not already one among billions. Why leave traces? What are words worth? One should be careful posing such questions, as the answer, for all I know, is that of not being.
And if I were to simply accept these traces as a mere proof of the self, a different shape of a heartbeat, what is boredom then, which dulls every word, turns pictures into someone else’s memories, ultimately creeps into anything and trashes it?
Boredom is not partying on your graduation day, boredom is the disbelief at a caress before falling asleep, boredom is not recognizing a joyful moment as yours, boredom is seeing the neighbour’s light always brighter.