“At what exact moment
did the real turn into the unreal, reality into reverie?
Where was the border? Where is the border?”
(Milan Kundera, ‘Identity’)
~ 1 ~
A book of sordid tales lay open on the desk, my gaze fixed on a photograph. The eyes stare from the page: holding my attention, groping my mind, fiddling with my senses.
He seems familiar.
I had seen this man before, and yet, I was not sure whether I recognized him; only that the feeling of déjà-vu wouldn’t go away. It seemed he had a hold on me. I was mesmerized by his stare, hypnotized by the thin smile, engrossed by his rugged features. He was wizened and aged, and I sensed a deep evil in his eyes.
I think this man has a dark heart!
Slightly flustered, I walked away from the book, out through the door of the curiosity shop in which I’d been browsing, and across the few yards to where my car was parked. I got into the car, started her up, and drove the couple of miles to my house. Pulling into the drive, I noticed that my front door was ajar.
Someone is in my house.
The Nomadic Soliloquist 