I often wonder what place I occupy in the lives of others.
I seem to get transplanted into these other worlds and placed exactly so, in a me-shaped hole that existed long before I came along. Each mindscape of intimates – friends, family and lovers – is like a painting that’s already complete but for that me-shaped hole in it.
Who I am to them depends on the painting they’ve made. If it’s a party scene then there I am holding a drink. If it’s an intimate nook then there I am suspended in a pre-ordained conversation. If it’s a port of departure then I stand with them, waiting in line for my boarding pass. It’s all as if they willed me into being there just so, regardless of my intent - like the mute apple-in-fruit bowl, forever trapped in still life.
It strikes me sometimes that my relationships might be more than that. That it’s not for me to occupy a hollowed-out silhouette; but instead, for me to change the scene just by being in it. Maybe, make it a moving picture, where characters inhale & exhale, where they evolve with the story and affect outcomes.
But of course, it’s difficult to ignore what would happen if I slowed the movie way down to its solitary frames. Then there I’d go again, slipping right back into my chalked outline in someone else’s still life.