I am listening to Luciano Pavarotti sing Una furtiva lacrima, an operatic piece from Cavalleria Rusticana. I don’t understand the words, but I think that the opera is rarely about the words, it is more about the beauty of the bars and notes that seem so elusive to the human voice. I listen to the operatic pieces of the great opera singers, but Luciano Pavarotti is my favourite. In his voice, I can feel the underlying emotion that flows like an undercurrent of a stream. In his voice, I feel a certain verbosity that I lack, a completeness that seems to make an empty apartment full of an ether that livens my mood but brings with a gravitas.
What do i feel as I sit smoking cigarettes listlessly, standing in my balcony? I stand in my balcony to escape the stifling silence of my apartment and to seek solace in the company of the traffic that moves on the road opposite me. The buses that travel past me are my favourite vehicles, and in each bus I catch the eye of a citizen, a person gazing listlessly out of the window. Who are we to each other, except strangers that choose to give each other company in a brief moment of time, never to see each other again? Is this a longing I feel or a dysphoria?
The track has changed to Christopher Spellman’s Sola perduta abbandonata, a guitar instrumental. I’ve been listening to it on loop and in each note of the guitar strings in a message that I can’t convert to verbiage even though I understand it fully well. It was the end track for a movie “Two Lovers”, about a man who was torn between two lovers. His sensitivity, his monochromatic emotion, his sentimental drive to try to do the best he could for both of his lovers left me lost. I find that I am lost, lost again. It isn’t a surprise anymore.
Where am I?
I am in an Eastern European town, and yet I am miles away. Miles away into nothing in particular. Where is my mind that soars and leaves my body behind? IIs this body such a shell that all it does is to carry my head to places it wants to go? My body is no amusement park, it is no temple to a spirit or a shrine to a God I don’t believe exists. My body is something I wish I could recognize. The face in the mirror is mine and yet, I see myself as if I am standing at the end of a long tunnel. It is cold, and it is warm and it is forbidding but welcoming, a dichotomy that makes my mind yearn for an anchor. I am looking for a lighthouse. I may have found it already but I am miles and miles away looking for a shore I can rest in.
I long for an endless expanse of sea, an endless expanse of sky, not this boxed sky that I look up to, bound by buildings and telephone poles in my sight. I don’t understand if this is an ennui, or a wound, but I know that neither does it hurt nor does it feel numb. There is a feeling I can’t place. I wake up drenched, feeling the embrace of someone I don’t remember. I feel wet kisses on my lips, the laughter fills my ears but my ears hear the seductive whispers of a lover. My mind knows there isn’t a lover, my body knows there isn’t one. Of the two I don’t know which one of them craves for this embrace so much that it creates phantoms that chase me in my dreams.