In the midst of the lecture hall, all I can focus on now is the cacophony of noise: people arriving together, snickering; clothes rustling as people scoot over for their little groups to become complete, the newcomers bearing drinks for the rest, drawing cheer and spontaneous surges of hugging, patting, and handholding as they burst into new conversation. And even when the clock strikes quarter past and it all reduces to a murmur, I find myself unable to sit normally in the lecture hall, surrounded by and forced to perceive all these happy, touchy groups of people getting along so well. All these people being able to relax in their shared existence.
I feel like some intruder. And it’s not that something has changed, for watching is what I did before and it’s what I do now; I just do it with new eyes. This background noise, so natural that it is taken for granted, so unremarkable, has bled from the thing that inspired happiness and made me smile so fondly—seeing those people being close and happy—into, finally, a bleak realisation. That I am, in fact, like every other happily entertained observer in front of a screen: just an observer—free to watch, but never to be a part of the things behind the glass…
I suppose I do feel a little envy.
Why—or how, rather—can people be so close to each other? Why do some feel allowed and able to touch other people, pat them on the shoulder, or embrace them (those actual ones, not that 5 millisecond bullshit)? How can they let themselves feel comfort so easily?
