He woke up suddenly that day. Unable to grasp his whereabouts. Unable to remember the past that led him here. Unable to perceive the face of his faceless body.
He was just a thought.
The magician.
Unreal.
The real came rushing at him at a terrible speed. He thought he might fall again, his body shivered in fear. Was it fear? he wasn't sure.
'I shall sit there on the veranda every evening watching stars. The rocking chair. The quilt which I shall wrap over the legs of a woman whose voice will accompany me through the evenings. Her skin shall be covered with deep wrinkles. I shall touch her feet and hold her hand as she stumbles at the threshold.'
'Who said that?' he asked as he looked around the room. It was empty. He has never come here before, yet it was his own face that was looking at him from a painting on the wall. Cartons of notebooks in which he scribbled in his own handwriting. Books packed and waiting for somebody to unpack them again. He went to the sink and began to wash the dishes. This made him feel as if he did belong to this other place of his own self.
He turned and saw an old woman shrouded with a morning mist. The morning of acquaintanceship against the evening of forgetfulness.
He could hear her crying in the distance. He could see her hand moving involuntarily as they increased the dosage of morphine. Her lips were dry. A sponge soaked in water. She was walking slowly supported by the hands of a young woman. Her voice was soft. Like whispering. Like whispering in the middle of the night. Like whispering in the middle of the night when you ask if you could tell a story...
He turned back. He did not want to distract the women. They belonged to each other, which made him feel as if he was a spy on their moment of togetherness. Yet he wanted to look...
He turned back again. The third woman sang a prayer. Her fingers kept moving as she was counting the beads of a rosary as she sang. He had forgotten how to pray. It seemed so distant to him and yet it made him bend his knees and bury his face in his hands and beg. Whom? ... What for?... Would anybody listen?
He opened his eyes to see that the women are gone. The cane rocking chair moved slightly in the light of a hospital tubelight. It seemed as if somebody sat there for a moment. But that moment was over now.
He sat motionless, unable to comprehend and suddenly out of nowhere a pen of the writer made him run for his life as he felt his body transporting itself onto a flight bound to nowhere.
He sat in meditation. These were the longest 3 hours of his life.
The women. The prayer. The flight.
The rocking chair flew away from the patio as the flight landed somewhere in the undefined space.
He took out his face again from the pocket of his trousers. It had a polite smile on it. It said 'Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking'. He wore it on his body as it was trembling with invisible spasms of crying. He stood up and walked towards the doors. He pressed the handle and took a firm step transporting himself to the stage again.
