αΦορμες

She is standing alone; there is only her, in a messy room with a clock behind her. The clock tics . . . tics.

I hate this sound; I hate this clock . . . stupid clock! It tics . . . it tics . . . I hate it! Too many thoughts are inside my head . . . too many pictures . . . too many emotions . . . too many tears, and I 'm only 22. I am alone in this messy room, thinking of the past, the present, the future. Who am I? Who am I going to be? Who are the people around me? It’s difficult to answer though, isn't it? And the clock tics . . . tics . . . time is running.

Dark faces, happy faces, betrayed faces, disappointed ones . . . many faces around me. Who are those people? How can you trust them? How can you trust yourself? The point is and will always be you, the person, the movement, the self, the idea. You, only you . . . who are you, anyway? I am entering the bus. Dark faces all around me, unhappy people, tired from the sadness of life, alone people, trying to capture your eye. And all this hidden behind a smile, a smile that if you look at it carefully you will understand that it is not true; it doesn't come from inside; it's only a picture . . . a fake one. And I am in the middle, like you, like everyone, trying to find something real inside this lie, searching and searching, but nothing is there . . .

Nothing!

Look at the other side. Look. Look carefully! Just look. There has to be light somewhere.

I turned my head, but still I wasn't able to see something. All the time was like this one, trying to find the light in a corner of a bus, but despite how carefully I was looking each time, the only thing I could hear was the awful noise of this stupid clock . . . and darkness everywhere . . . and it tics . . . tics . . . tics.

Times of loneliness, voices all around, laughs, jokes, happy moments, moments of loneliness.

This is my life, your life. Who are you anyway?

Who am I? I am an idea who tries to find a solution. All my life I was trying to find a way to get through the black hole, to reach something that everybody else had. I was steps behind everyone. I was late . . . tic . . . tac . . . tic . . . tac. . . .the clock is always behind me, and it tics.

It tics. I hate this sound. I hate this clock. I hate it! Everything leaves, dies . . . even the thoughts, the pictures, the emotions. Nothing lasts for ever . . . apart from this clock.

Her parents bought it for her before she was born. It's a pink one with the picture of a young lady. That clock was always in her room, her messy room. There are lots of clothes everywhere, and the clock is the only thing clearly seen in the room, upon her bed. At this particular moment she is standing on a pair of trousers.

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