#2491

When I read “The Man of the Crowd,” I felt that Poe was trying to convey how a clear mind can slip into a quiet, obsessive delirium focusing on the one unreadable face that suddenly appeared out of this tidal wave of faces, fracturing that equilibrium of a joyful peace of mind that my sanity depended on. If we followed the man through corners, it was not for answers but because the not knowing gripped me in a craze frenzy, sharpening into a dark, macabre ecstasy that haunted in a disturbingly lucid state of mind. His shifting expression keeps drawing me through the city until I see the truth: the chase was never about him. It was about my need for the world to stay decipherable. Poe leaves me with the fact I resist — some people remain opaque, and some mysteries stay in the crowd because they were never meant to be solved.

You don't feel anything at first. Maybe there's a passing whine but it's mostly quiet. You absentmindedly brush your arm, Notice how plains have turned into rolling hills bubbling up under your skin, The building itch that burns you inside out. Scratching brings temporary relief and prolongs your suffering, While resisting still means a baptism of flames. What is self-destruction when you suffer already?

© Manoel T, 2021