Tuesday, July 07, 2009
It’s like stepping into someone else's head. Or maybe your own head. Or at least imagining that you’re doing so. At that stage, you block reality out. Dim the noises around, blur the sights in front of your eyes. And you find your flow. There, then. You can proceed to write your story, perform your song, take a walk down memory lane and travel to the future. And then suddenly, you are pushed back to reality. By a boy walking bare feet, selling shiny things from a twisted hanger slung across his frail shoulders. You slowly regain your senses, smell your surroundings, see the huts from the grilled windows, and hear the noises the train makes against the tracks and you sway slightly, in rhythm with the train’s motion. You feel the jerk when it comes to halt at a station. You can see people file past you, occupy the vacant seats around, jostling, talking, yelling and slowly settling down as the train begins to move. You start swaying again, the train racing with vehement force and your handwriting begins to go haywire on the page. You get distracted by some voices, and shamelessly overhear their conversations. After a while you lose interest in their lives and lies, and give in to the voices inside your head. And so it begins, stepping into someone’s head.