Disappearer

Don’t believe that it’s impossible to dis­ap­pear. It is. Don’t believe that it’s impossible to step off this whirl­ing world for a few pre­cious breaths, or even longer, and excuse your­self from the scream­ing hub­bub, the voices in your head, the doubts in your soul, the banal and the every­day. It is.

Your route is lined with gaudy hoard­ings, each of them light­ing your path. Fol­low the sub­ter­ranean rumble even as your skin res­ists the heat and noise and your mind tries to rebel against the claus­tro­pho­bia. Nervous­ness may well des­cend in the shape of tick­ing and twitch­ing, but keep walk­ing the gloomy, unfa­mil­iar cor­ridors and lightly drag­ging your fin­gers along the damp walls until you find the door. Open it nervously, step inside, close it behind you. You’re gone.

Stand at the stained and streaked win­dow and pre­tend that you can almost see your house from here. Gaze down at the city’s patch­work and know that at this moment, you are just one anonym­ous num­ber amongst the teem­ing masses. No one can see you up here. No one ever raises their eyes in this dir­ec­tion, since every­one is trapped inside their sol­it­ary sphere and too intent on reach­ing their own des­tin­a­tion. Hid­den behind these misty panes and flut­ter­ing cur­tains, you only exist for one pair of eyes.

Freeze five seconds so that they last for an hour, freeze five minutes so that they last until dawn. Press play and let the spec­tral essence fill the darkened room, increas­ing in intens­ity until the speak­ers are blown and you fall to the floor. Then repeat the pro­cess so that moment after moment after moment is drawn apart and rent asun­der. Don’t even give this music the slight­est pause before hit­ting rewind and start­ing all over again. Give your­self up to the glor­i­ous noise and swim towards the sound of sub­merged strings, drift­ing in the salty water and suck­ing in deep breaths of the elsewhere.

And all the while, you won­der if you are really here, if this is really hap­pen­ing, if you have really dis­ap­peared. The answer only comes as sun­light invades your tired, heavy-lidded eyes come morn­ing, and you step out onto the baked and burn­ing con­crete to rejoin the human race.

Comments: 20

    This encap­su­lates so many situ­ations, could be inter­preted in a hun­dred dif­fer­ent ways, or might mean a mil­lion and one things, but I know what it means to me. And within that thought lies the essence of excel­lent writing.

    Beau­ti­ful.

    Miss Vertigo | 08.05.07, 18:57

    Dis­ap­pear­ing is a great trick. If you could give spe­cific dir­ec­tions to that door, people would beat a path to it. Which might then defeat the pur­pose, of course. Nev­er­the­less, con­grat­u­la­tions if you have found the secret to that tem­por­ary escape.

    bohémienne | 08.05.07, 19:07

    Your blog is the first genu­inely inter­est­ing, com­puls­ive blog I have come across. Still work­ing on my blog. Was start­ing to feel like I would quit, as all blogs I have come across seem to be such per­fect little spark­ling globes of god­damn excel­lence (yours is a spark­ling little globe of excel­lence too! Just not a self-regarding globe of excel­lence!).. This post is inspir­ing. Maybe I won’t give up the ghost yet then.…

    little moon gate | 08.05.07, 19:25

    I love that. I used to long to be able to step out­side my life some­times — even if only for 5 minutes, in order to gird my loins for the next onslaught.

    Melograna | 08.05.07, 19:25

    Mmmmm… orange lolly…

    Ani | 08.05.07, 19:39

    i love it! i’ve blogrolled you awhile ago, and may have for­got­ten to men­tion it. ;) hey, i’m vesper.

    vesper | 08.05.07, 20:02

    it’s sort of import­ant not to just disappear…sometimes.

    Miles Away | 08.06.07, 00:05

    I don’t want to dis­ap­pear. I want every­one else to.

    Angelalala | 08.06.07, 00:28

    I’m invis­ible. Which is vir­tu­ally the same as disappearing.

    NAGA | 08.06.07, 00:59

    Miss Ver­tigo — It’s what it means to you, yes. Thank you for ‘get­ting it’.

    Bohémi­enne — If only it was just the one set of dir­ec­tions. How simple that would be.

    Little Moon Gate — Wel­come, and I do hope you keep blog­ging. This site is like a spark­ling little globe, true. I am ima­gin­ing a reflect­ive disco ball.

    Melo­grana — It’s a long time since I have heard the phrase ‘gird my loins’.

    Ani — Lyons Maid? Walls? M&S?

    Ves­per — Thanks for your link, and for your comment.

    Miles Away — Some­times. Yes. Some­times it’s import­ant not to just dis­ap­pear. But some­times it isn’t.

    Angelalala — Yes, I agree with that too. Although I sup­pose that in the same way as that ques­tion asks whether a tree makes a sound if it topples over in a forest without any­one to hear it, it might be wondered whether every­one hasn’t in fact dis­ap­peared if you choose to do so.

    NAGA — Not quite invis­ible. I can see you.

    An Unreliable Witness | 08.06.07, 06:57

    I have to con­fess I’m a big fan of these noc­turnal jour­neys of yours, mr unre­li­able… more please!

    edvard moonke | 08.06.07, 20:37

    Thank you for your kind words.

    I know this post…know it because I left a sim­ilar world to this in the big rat race of a city for a quieter, sim­pler life…

    You use words well.

    Nimbus | 08.06.07, 22:34

    I’m with Edvard, I enjoy your noc­turnal emis­sions, er, jour­neys, also.

    callisto | 08.08.07, 07:31

    Edvard — They only come out at night, appar­ently. Ahem.

    Nim­bus — Wel­come. Your jour­ney from the big city to the a quieter, sim­pler life is often a very appeal­ing one to me.

    Cal­listo — I have never had com­ment passed in pub­lic, either favour­able or unfa­vour­able, on my noc­turnal emis­sions. So thank you, I think.

    That’s quite enough innuendo.

    An Unreliable Witness | 08.08.07, 08:20

    Intriguing post — thank you!

    Richard | 08.09.07, 05:17

    You have a won­der­ful writ­ing style: effort­less and flows so beau­ti­fully. Have you ever read any­thing by Haruki Murakami? I think you would like his books. This pas­sage reminds me of the atmo­sphere he cre­ates in “The Wind Up Bird Chron­icles”. Keep writ­ing, you are very talented!

    www.akiterises.blogspot.com | 08.11.07, 20:17

    By the way, I was a ‘lit­tlemoong­ate’ but have dis­ap­peared into the cyber-ether and when I emerged, I found I had meta­morph­osed into a rising kite. Thanks for your msg to me earlier. Yes, a a spark­ling disco ball! (and all the girls hand­bags are in the middle and all the boys are air­gui­tar­ing to Down Down Deeper and Down…oops think I’m fly­ing my kite to close to the truth there…

    www.akiterises.blogspot.com | 08.11.07, 20:23

    Hello, a kiter­ises, and wel­come (again). Hmm, Haruki Murakami? Funny you should men­tion it, but as any­one who knows me will read­ily tell you, I am a bit of fan, to put it mildly. Incid­ent­ally, you might also like to read this from way back in the archives.

    An Unreliable Witness | 08.12.07, 11:31

    Hot dig­gety dog! You love Murakami! Me too…point of information-I am a slow and infre­quent reader. A book really has to GRAB me by the roots of my hair and YANK me in to its pages. So few books I have come across do this for me. Murakami does. The days that I spent read­ing “Wind up Bird” I still remem­ber as the most rav­ish­ing and intox­ic­at­ing days.…..I could do noth­ing but immerse myself in that deep, hyp­notic, smooth pool…mmm, I have no well, but I do have a shed. There is a small spider and a dan­cing wash­ing machine in there. Per­haps through the porthole of the wash­ing machine there is a vor­tex via which I can.…

    www.akiterises.blogspot.com | 08.12.07, 19:46

    But did you go down, or up?

    clare | 08.14.07, 11:29

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