He never realised it would be so lonely. For many years he had shunned people. He felt uncomfortable near them – alien; disturbed in their presence. So it was obvious he would become a hermit, alone with his dreams, his thoughts, his wishes. But even as a hermit it was often impossible to be alone. Impossible, at least, on a planet brimming with people and approaching bursting point.
The planet had been like that for a long time, populating every piece of space available, cutting down on the wildernesses the hermit required. And eventually he knew he would have to find his solitude elsewhere.
Thought-drive had been a theoretical possibility for decades, but just as his wish to be gone from people forever arose, the principles were worked out and his dream became a possibility. And when he left the planet, it was in a small vessel. Just one room to live in – his wish room.
He wasn’t sure how long he was in the wish room before he realised that even hermits need people. Oh, he didn’t need people to interact with. He could do without that. But when all other forms of communication are shunned, we are left with raw desire. And desire requires stimulus. Even the hermit needs to observe – to watch – at times. For in absolute loneliness we become the voyeur.
The wish room allowed such things. For the wish room could go wherever your thoughts require. You just think and you’re there, watching. And the hermit had the whole universe to observe.
He watched life in all its forms. In one sense, he travelled the universe, but in another, more real, sense, he travelled the world of experience. And at every destination, the window of the wish room disclosed life.
He saw life at its happiest. He saw life at its saddest. He saw life at its most peaceful. And life at its most violent. He watched – felt – every emotion, every ideosyncracy, every foible. He was, he began to realise, a repository of life.
At first, he was happy to see life at its standard, most normal expression. But soon he became bored by this. And when that happened, he went in search of the abnormal, the bizarre. So he witnessed insanity, criminality, the depraved, the weird. And he took it all in with relish. And before he knew it he never took a rest from his voyeurism, seeing life all around him without a break.
The images swarmed into his head, filled him, gave him no time for rest, for peace – for solitude. So can we really call him a hermit?
It was a question he eventually asked himself. WAS he a hermit? Or was it that he simply lacked the confidence to experience – to interact – with life himself?
His answer came with his growing feeling of longing for involvement in this life he observed. His answer came in his growing frustration, interrupted only by deeper bouts of depression.
He wanted to partake. Of that, he eventually had no doubt. But of all the wishes he could have, the only one he could not command is for the wish room door to unlock. His wish room, was, he realised, a metaphor for so many lives. For when we move along a course of life, we burn bridges along the way. And he had wished for his wish room door to never open.
For how long the hermit continued his voyeuristic quest through life, he had no idea. But for all this time he held the one wish at the corner of his mind, knowing that he must only think it when he was absolutely sure.
But eventually he was. And the wish came into his mind. And in his last moment of existence, he saw how life was at the centre of a sun.
© Anthony North, January 2008
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