No one knows anything about him, what he does or who he really is. He is absent from public life, and maybe even private life. Introverted, timid perhaps, and possibly depressed. But no one knows because he never comes out. ‘Perhaps he reads?’ I heard someone say. But apparently not. Sunbathes? Dances? Dreams? What does he dream about? No one seems to know. I’d like to meet him properly. I’ve seen him up close – he is quite attractive – but I’ve never got really close to see well. But perhaps we always want to know what we don’t know, we always want to touch what we can’t touch. That which is prohibited always offers some intrigue, some excitement. So he has us under control, even if that is not what he wishes. His absence keeps us guessing. His presence in our lives keeps us in a state of perpetual fascination. His absence keeps us in perpetual fear. How has he done this? Was it intentional? Or an error in life, a trip one day, a mistake, a slip up, a wrong turn? Does he regret that day? We don’t know. No one knows. Is he trapped in his mistakes? Is he fascinated by us? Fearful of us? No one knows. So our imaginations run wild, imagining imaginings, imagining truths and imagining lies. We gloat. We wonder. We admire. We fear. And in the end, perhaps, we give up. No one knows anything. Someone must. His lovers. They must know something. They must know what he likes to eat for breakfast, which drink he prefers in the evening, the music he relaxes to, how to make him laugh. They must have seen his tears, and his silences. But we have seen nothing. And still we are fascinated. Why do we even care? He holds us in his palm and could crush us with his fingers. Is that why we care? Or do we simply admire him. Perhaps he is nothing more than a wonderful fantasy, a Wizard of Oz, a myth that we’ve all fallen for.
Perhaps, the truth is, he doesn’t really exist.
Originally posted from Luanda 22 March 2007