The Quiet Place

The Quiet Place

             It was at the end of my sophomore year in the High School auditorium where 1,000 anxious students were supposed to sit still while being crammed together in a space equivalent to my living room. It was the day of the annual awards ceremony; a school tradition of the ennoblement of those with the best grades. That year like every year faculty separates one person from each grade for the “title,” and they would stand above everyone else in such a manner to say in essence, “I am exceptional. I have reached the highest peak. Admire me.” The lesser students would look up at those faces with envy and with a little shame, always wondering if one day they too would stand in that spotlight. The teachers rose in unison, all eyes on the chosen ones. The clapping began slowly and started into a quiet rolling thunder that reverberated throughout the auditorium. Then the flashing of cameras went off one by one like an endless series of illuminations that would give any normal person a headache on their best day. As the superstars stood there smiling broadly, soaking in all the praise, I stood in silence: forgotten and irrelevant. Was I the only one who felt this way?

             I couldn’t remember the next few minutes when everyone started to funnel off the stage. However, I found myself outside walking towards a place where only I reigned supreme. A domain that was quiet, dark, and serene, consisting of a bench and a lamp post. The lamp post was incandescent and never once went out. The light which shined from it was gentle and gave the dark place a tranquil atmosphere. Adjacent to the lamp post stood an old bench: fashioned from mahogany and made to look like something from art nouveau ever-changing, always growing. Each time I would sit on the bench I would feel like I would disappear and time around me would stand still. This was my safe haven from the outside world. An Escape. I could’ve stayed in that place for a long time and no one would turn their head my direction.

             At one point that day, however, the comfort of escapism wore off, and my mind started to wander. As if in a trance my uncertainty translated into questions: Who am I? What is my purpose? Where am I supposed to be? The tranquil atmosphere began to wane. I suddenly came back to consciousness to see a young woman beside me on the very same bench as I. She looked lost and helpless, only wearing a black dress and a red hat that would further illuminate the dark realm. Her lips twitched, and with it a question: “Sir, do you happen to know why I exist?” she asked.

             I froze, for I knew that no matter what answer I would give it would not be enough, but then I responded: “I dare not say, for I don’t know the answer to that myself.”

             “My mother would tell me that eventually each of us would find meaning,” she said in a graceful tone, “but, no matter what I do, people can’t see me”. After some moments she needlingly asked, “do you know how that feels?”

             “Actually, I do,” I said sympathetically. I continued, “Every day I come to this place to disappear because I’m forgotten in the real world,” and after a minute I then said, “I’ve always been invisible.”

             “Has it been hard for you?” she asked.

             I paused before I spoke and looked towards the lamp post which bathed me in warm light. I couldn’t remember the last time someone asked me how I felt. It was new and strange for me, but at the same time comforting. A tear trailed down my face in relief from my hardships, I then replied: “yes”.

             “Don’t you think it’s strange?” she asked while looking at the ground, and after a pause then said, “The world can be at times so pleasant, yet so cruel,” she continued. “When I felt that everyone I knew started to forget about me that was when I started to question the point of living.”

             “It’s hard feeling insignificant,” I respond dejectedly.

             The young woman rested her head on the back of the bench and closed her eyes. With a soft and meaningful voice, she said: “I guess everyone feels invisible sometimes don’t they?” She then slowly proceeded to get up and brush her clothes off.

             “Are you leaving?” I asked.

             She turned to me and delicately said, “No.” she then lifted her hand out to me and said, “Together we can be seen”.