In a long, quiet journey, my thoughts came back to me, as if they’re always there around the corner, but afraid. Scared by the belief that I might suffer from them. I know it is sort of strange. They are always such a kind observer. The world seems so different and distant, and they were curious of it. No answers could be found yet because it expands infinitely, but now they want to be home laying their bodies on fresh clean sheets, smelling coffee in the morning, and seeing familiar landscape.
I welcomed them with soft tunes playing from the small, cheap speakers. I offered them tea, asked them to smoke with me, to keep me company. I did not ask them to stay, and then they were leaving, so soon. They will observe me, watch my back, they said. You will have the other long quiet journey, they said, when they will try to visit. But do not try to invite, they said, for we will not come.
Now they are gone. The house is now empty but I can still feel their sticky presents remain and it leaves me tranquillized. I will miss them, I think, while staring through the window at the weak movements of the grass outside. As for now I can only rest, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened this afternoon.
I feel sorry for being detached from them. Too focused in reality, too lost in attempts to find, forgetting that they are is what I was.
I am is merely a media and they are is what I always miss.
They are, is what I am still not ready to be.