Y, he called himself, dying to earn the X, to be somebody, anybody.
There he sat, a faceless man, at the side of the road as people went back and forth. To them, the man is not there, he does not matter and he does not exist. Only the road exists and all that is on it must serve arrival; if not, it must be put aside, eliminated or subdued.
As to himself, he’s not there as well. He’s slightly in every one of them in their passing there, borrowing their faces, their lives for brief intervals of time : From nervous rookies rushing to their first day on the job to arrogant big shots, too busy to put their phone down and look around, endless possibilities. And so the whole motion was his, he had everything but only for so long since the lives he borrowed soon faded away in the mass.
But it was better that way, now he could go on imagining himself.
There, in that piece of non-existence, he could be whoever and whatever he wanted to be, but he never was. He just sat there with his jar of faces, and the sun came to collect the day and rip him of the faces he thought were his. He was naked again staring at the moon, reflecting the only face that neither he nor the sun or anything else could rip him of. He just sat there, stinking of remorse, trying to wash the smell away with tears and resolutions.

Eddy Abi Younes
29.2.2016

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