Prismated

I notice that many people I see on the street are imprisoned in small glass prisms, whose reflected light takes the form of individuality. The intriguing part of this complex stems from the fact that we never imagine we built them around ourselves, while we also don’t know where they came from.

Whatever the origin or reason, they are transparent to us and to those who are still free, leaving us exposed to one another. Extremely exposed. Not that I think there is humanity in seeing each other, since we are images that move like muted televisions, unable to absorb the noise that surrounds us.

The mass, I mean, all the free people cannot look at a prismated one for even a moment, even if they press their hands against the glass, colder still than the hearts of those people. A prismated one tends to hate the mass, after all the prismated one has all this love they cannot share, because the prismated one simply cannot share.

And as for me? Sometimes I think it would be interesting to join the gray mass with a splendid friendship stamped on my face, but I think it would be a utopia of connections, even more distorted by the concavities of the glass in which I find myself.

I admit I’ve already tried to break this shell of mental solitude in the shape of a prism with my metaphorical fists, but even with them already bleeding, I realized the glass would not break — not before I broke myself.

I wished many times that this accursed divider that enveloped us had never enveloped people… and me. That way, no one would be imprisoned in solitude to be observed. Then, we could lose ourselves in a moving crowd, without thoughts and without faces. An innocuous comfort that certifies the death of thought.

But, on second thought, I come to the conclusion that we need these prisms. This almost schizophrenic individualism may have a purpose beyond the borders of this glass — perhaps it’s a barricade to keep us unique, to keep us who we are…

To keep us alive.