Sometimes I wish nobody knew me. Maybe everyone I know should leave to a faraway place and we could communicate only trough letters, saying how nice it would be when they return but they never would.
At such moments, I recall the days spent in the old house. It was an out-of-this-world place. All the noises of everyday life remained outside while inside the silence was dense. I could feel it with the tip of my tongue. Torn apart only by the creaking doors, wooden staircase, and floor. Everything I did there I did silently. I woke up alone, pressed by this silence and at night the silence was the only one to welcome me. I had to find the bed groping after I had turned off the lights and then I laid down and peered into the shadows. Living alone is oppressive and depressing but some people are born for a life like this and I guess I am one of them. It seems to me that if I was all alone I would pay more attention to myself, I would exercise more, study more, read more, devote more time to my work. I would do the things I consider important.
When I went to the university I didn’t learn anybody’s name throughout the first year and nobody dared ask me anything. It was great. Later I became more friendly, of course, in order to fit in. I am not some god damn rebel. Not at all. [clickandtweet handle=”@farewell_bo” hashtag=”#thoughts” related=”” layout=”” position=””]Just sometimes I wish nobody knew me.[/clickandtweet]