I faced the opposite person, as we sat across from each other with only a round, dark widen table between us,we contemplated this. Muffeled around us was the communication haze that was the hotel lounge and bar.
We spoke of the fundamental being that was our essence, the inner voice that is who one really is. Too, of the facades of social familiarity that hides them until they know not if it exists – yet, like an addiction to an apparent sickness they yearn to medicate. Together in a similar dream, they are united, together.
How alone we are in this world. Being that inner voice that we listen to, separates us.
Yet, in separation lies a distinction too that feeds our soul like an addition: I yearn for knowing who I am the most, feeling compelled to be myself the most. Being only true to what I am and by being the little voice, hearing the little voice, do I live. Because of this, I live a life of solitude, simplicity, of quite desperation.
We spoke of this. I remember the lounge curtain, elegant and formal with an old ancientness to it, behind the person to who I’m spoke. The room was dim.
Because of this, of this solitude, this apartness he said there is a path, layed out before only us, one that only we could take. Only those that were true of heart, who understood the value of honesty and whom lived each day that way, listening to the inner voice that drives us to be good and so distinct.
This path we were already on – it leads us, monitors us and becomes our lives – a series of milestones reached by virtue of value of our decisions we make. We are chosen – by ourselves, and we monitored by the everything, that what we do is noted. That each of our lives is a series of events that are recorded, as such that they are highlighted.
If you become so lucky. You’ve made our own luck – yet, that luck is special that each new lucky thing that occurs is clear to you.
We ended our conversation and went to our rooms.
Are some of us really special or is this an almost romantic way to theorise our apparent lack of true interpretation, to substitute a need for distinction – to perhaps qualify our own lonely lives with a meaning of inspiration? Or is this a failure of acknowledging ones impact on oneself?