Hiding

It's scary to think how it's impossible to hide anymore. How everything that one thinks, writes, reads, says always remains. It's almost as if somebody pressed the record button so hard that it's jammed and you cannot pry it out. You try all the while, first with your fingers, then with the tops of your nails and then with your teeth. You pull, scratch, bite to no avail. If you're around people, you ask for help. Slowly, a crowd gathers around you: everybody tries their hand at solving the seemingly innocuous problem. Slight, skinny people are laughed at by the more hefty ones. They fail too. Everybody does. Some get angry, some perturbed. That's when the suggestions and the questions start pouring in. "Drop it and see if it stops!" "This might take a wrench!" "How did this happen?" "How did you manage to do this?" All the while, every single passing comment is on record. Everything is indelible. Every forgettable statement is stamped on to the reels, and the reels roll on endlessly.

In the end, you decide to lie, joke and make a fool of yourself so that everything about you that is recorded is a falsification. You hide under fake names, fake e-mail i.d.s, fake hopes, fake aspirations till all that's left of you has curled up so deep inside some nameless cavern that it can never be reached. And that's when the recorder is defeated, that's when you feel exceedingly happy, almost mad. It's strange how it's always more pleasurable to hide than to show. In a world so full of light, we're like tiny orbs of darkness floating without reason.