I wonder sonetimes how other people see me.

Not friends or acquaintances but rather the total strangers you pass by in the street or on your way to your cafe table.

The people who only bear witness to your existance for the few moments you spend in their field of vision.

Do they register something in those moments? Am I transparent like a ghost or am I catalogued via some subconscious automatic function based on my appearance or body language?

And are there some occassions where I am actively observed and judged, failing or passing the grade set by whoever watches after unknowlingly taking their tests?

I think these futile questions while lying limp on the bed.

The din of the ac reminds me of a ship’s engine running deep in its bowels. But it is an engine running with no propeller to turn, merely there to mock you.

This bed and I on top of it are adrift in a sea of nothingness sleepily witnessing the world around me dropping into two dimensions, becoming nothing more than a badly printed wall poster.

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