Hiding Out (The Hideout)

I suppose it may not make much sense to the casual wanderer, but the more one attempts to belong, the more alienation and separation wins the war.

No one tilts a head or chances a glance, for everyone is a stranger to their fellow citizens. A city of strangers waiting for their purpose to be unveiled and pleading for something to occur. So they venture forth to where the lights never dim and others are guaranteed to exist. Some came to feign socialization while others are hard at work – supposedly. Why here and not back in the privacy of their own?

With privacy comes the loneliness, the quiet, the stubborn underpinning. One could hear one's thoughts. Not here. A steady indistinguishable sound plays overhead, throbbing and begging to be noticed without giving any solid clues as to its identity. This is not a place for people. There are no personalities, histories, or individuals, merely forms of other humans that may or may not be alive. There are stereotypes and mysteries left unexplored.

There is the solid underlying emotion of fear. Quiet reigns and only a flipping of a page or the scratch of a pencil is heard. A cup is lifted, a sip taken, and the ceramic object is placed down again, as quietly as possible, the light clink an unmistakable reminder that others exist in this pretend stranger world.

No one wants company and comfort is fruitless. There exists that basic human need to belong, the desire to nestle in the cushy couch that might have come from some random grandmother's house and build a fort out of the pillows. But that simply would not be proper. They would stare, they would see you. By acting cold and solemn, you belong. They are each here almost begrudgingly. A cough is blasphemous language and hearty cheer is a most unwelcome distraction.

The muffled noises from outside mingle with the strange sounds that someone probably considered music, but it is no such thing. It too is simply background, there because it must exist, it belongs without notice, without an ounce more to its worth.

A wanderer comes in out of the cold, briefly surveying his surroundings without making eye contact. Every being in the place feels his gaze float over but no movement. No one takes a pause at his entrance as if it did not register ... but somehow his presence is accepted in order to complete this set of miserable strangers.

I wanted quiet.
I wanted space.
To get away.
To be apart.
But I needed more.

We are all here to complete a task, to avoid disturbance. Each other patron is annoyed that this is the only reason why we hide out in this little hole of a place. We share so much in common, we all want to escape, so we find ourselves grouped together in this awkward alliance of semi-silence.

Every now and then I shall glance out the window and see absolutely no change in the scene from the last glance. The ritual with the cup continues. Up, sip, down ... with a clink. Cars whiz by. Why should they stop? There must be something more promising one more mile down, just one more, they say.

A cough and a sneeze in the back, out of my line of sight. Someone clears his throat – how obnoxious. Jangling keys. Rhythmic tapping. A chair being moved. A man enters my peripheral vision – is he the wandering stranger? I cannot be sure; I never really saw him. I see the movement even though I am starring into my cup of coffee ... café mocha, my favorite. But somehow it is still lacking. I keep hoping to discover that perfect cup, but this is decent enough, for now. Movement and noise, how hideous. Clanking dishware. A mumbled conversation started. Silence no more. There was really none to begin with. There was never any to serve as a control, but I can still pretend that I once had it.

The mug is still warm, even after all this time. The coffee is satisfying but so guilty. It was a tool, a ruse. Four dollars, for this? No one comes here for the coffee. No one comes here just because they can.

We are all scared little beings, searching out the warmth and light: our primal needs. Motivated by fear we hate what exists but fear its absence even more. Internally I complain at the noise, but would pure, unadulterated silence drive me insane? So we stay, stranded in hiding, glancing out the windows to see if anyone will glance back – but no one ever does, no one ever will. And everyone knows this. No one wants to know. No one wants to be known.

What is he doing? Part of me wonders. But I do not turn my head. I do not really care. I fear a reprisal, I fear meeting his eye. They all know the fear, for they share it with me. We have at least that in common. We are so alike it scares us. We are not so unique, so weird. We're merely scared little children, latching onto the hope, the dream, that someday the silence will not engulf us all.

So quiet, so loud. Inner monologues have priority. Contact prohibited by that unknown rule – that is what this is. The unwritten connection between these many scared little souls who want nothing more to do with each other than share the space. This is a land of secrets of all that is unsaid but known deep down – the common human experience that no one acknowledges. Hiding here we don’t have to pretend so hard. Hiding here we don’t have to pretend to care. To lie is the greatest lesson that can be taught. To lie to one's self is the greatest accomplishment that can be achieved.

Say you're happy.
Say you like the song.
Say you agree.
Say you understand.

Smile a bit.
Nod your head hello.
Create that twinkle in your eye
And allow a girlish giggle to escape.

But dear goodness never admit its falseness, for then walls would crumble and weakness would be on display. Vulnerability would become apparent and emotions exposed. Do not burden strangers who want nothing to do with you. A girl sits not more than a yard away from me, but I have no idea what she looks like, what she is doing. She exists and that is information enough. No one wants to know. No one wants to be known.

Don't.
Tell yourself a little lie
And move on.