No One Hears You

The lighting was bothersome with too many lamps, and the walls were white, but that did nothing to change the feeling of the place’s darkness despite its spaciousness. In the hall sits a young man wearing a loose floral shirt and white trousers, careful with his hairstyle. Despite the noise around him, he maintains his calm — perhaps his indifference to what is happening around him. He is concerned, first and last, with registering patients’ names and sending them in to see the doctor. In the hall, the faces of those present keep changing, each living in their own moment. Some smile, one laughs aloud for all to hear, another cries, while others wear sharp looks and are consumed by silence. A tall man with sharp features enters:

• What number are you on?
• Number 6 so far.
• How many are registered with you?
• Twenty-nine. He waves his hand and leaves. Moments later he returns.
• What number are you on? He receives no answer. He looks at those seated:
• Draw close to one another with your hearts. Life is like a joke — we must learn to laugh at it. Forgiveness purifies the soul. No one responds. The faces are expressionless. But an old woman breaks the silence:
• Sit down, register your name, and save your words. No one hears you. His gaze remains sharp as he listens to the old woman, but he keeps repeating:
• We must purify our hearts, or we will lose everything. Near the old woman sits a young girl barely past twenty. Black hair falls over her shoulders, eyes that have lost their luster despite their beauty — kohl-lined without kohl. She wears brown trousers and a dark green blouse. I looked to her for an answer: Was she accompanying the old woman, or was the old woman accompanying her?
• I have nothing to do with the old woman. I am alone. Tears began to stream from her eyes.
• Why are you crying?
• I don’t know. I always cry. The past, yesterday, chases me like a pack of wolves. The details of yesterday follow me into my day. I torture myself over them, and they keep controlling my mind. I cannot escape them.
• Did you do something seriously wrong?
• No. But the details haunt me, suffocate my soul, and make me cry.
• There is no use in torturing yourself over the past. Let life pass through you like waves, as Zorba says.
• I sing. My voice is beautiful. I am skilled at cooking and creating varied dishes.
• Then sing, cook, laugh, and live life without embellishment or details.
• How, when I am besieged by details? She picked up her handbag and chose a seat next the receptionist. Suddenly, a tall young woman enters wearing jeans, holding an e-cigarette between her rosy lips, releasing fragrant smoke. Another girl accompanies her. She begins to dance in the middle of the hall, repeating:
• Life is a cigarette and a dance. She asks one of those seated:
• Will you dance with me?
• When I look at you, I feel that life has passed me by.
• I am a moth drawn to the flames. She smokes her e-cigarette, exhales, then quiets down. The laughter dies on her lips, the sparkle leaves her eyes, and silence takes over. But a woman breaks the silence:
• I hate waiting. My way back is long and desolate. You all hate me — your faces are miserable. I want the whole world to come before me so I can tell it: why am I afraid? Why have I become like this? The receptionist keeps calling out names to see the doctor, showing no interest in what is happening in the hall. But the tall girl resumes her dance, repeating:
• This world is nothing but a waiting room for the next world. Then she hurls herself into the doctor’s room without waiting, and silence envelops everyone. He looks into the eyes of those seated, at the expressions on their faces, and remembers that beneath the soul’s recesses there are always secrets. We are not as we describe ourselves. And when we think we understand everything, we fall into error. For life is nothing but a dream we try to hold onto. Otherwise, no one hears you when you scream.