When I met her, she had already been broken. Neither she nor I could blame any one person in particular for her undoing, it was the result of a chance of fortuity; the assemblage of a society crippled by its own botheration. Her fate was bound to the fate of the people. We knew this, both her and me, and we accepted it; I more reluctantly than herself but, in the end, we could not escape it. She had been exiled—She did so herself—from the people, and remained at a distance, though she walked amongst them as if they were her own. She lived with her hand raised upwards and towards them, a signature commanding people to withdraw. And so they did.

The relationship we shared, she and I, was uncommon, to say the least, we talked: sitting across from one another on the floor with our legs stretched outwards and our weight shifting from, either, behind us on our palms or our elbows on the floor and our heads in our hands—if we were not sitting on a floor we were not talking; we made love but only because we felt as if we had to, it was just what people did in our situation. Otherwise we walked through the streets of this city ignoring whispers and gaped stares. The people would look at her like she was a chest full of empty drawers, and these drawers were open to anyone demanding to know what was, or was not, inside. When I walked alongside her I could feel what it was like to be invisible with everyone staring at you, knowing that the only thing anyone was ever staring at was a chest full of empty drawers, and they knew they were empty; still they stared, I think, because inasmuch as people are curious about what they don’t understand there is an innate curiosity towards seeing themselves in somebody else, and they feared their own emptiness.

We lived in Germany, she and I, often sitting outside the Cologne Cathedral staring up at it in awe—both at its greatness, and also knowing that it had been left unfinished—how something so grand could be incomplete, gave us comfort, for our own reasons, of course, but nevertheless the cathedral made us feel that nothing could be completely incomplete; it is an illusion, in the way that a people will perceive the worlds around them, and as a result, the way that they will perceive the two of us. As people, familiar with us walked between us and the cathedral they were always gaping at her and me; as if they were unware of the miracle behind them, as if the cathedral was just another illusion in their world invented by their indifference. It seemed, sometimes—most of the time—as if she didn’t see them at all, she would look through them, and up towards the cathedral. I couldn’t be certain if she was thinking anything, but I did want to know. I did know, however, that if I asked she would look at me blankly and slip away from wherever she had been lost; and the idea would be lost it forever.

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know?”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know?”

And then we would be staring up at the cathedral again, and passersby would be staring at us and our evening would pass this way—slowly and quickly, simultaneously—as the colors mingled and veered until there was no color, and it was just black; with the interruption of the lights from the cathedral. Without a word she would stand and walk away and—expecting this behavior—I would sit there and watch the moon until it was directly above me and then I would leave, with my hands in my pockets, strolling down GroBe Neugasse towards the water. I would walk south along the Rhine and, eventually, I would find her sitting, or lying on a bench with her eyes closed and she would be using her hands as a pillow. She wouldn’t be asleep, but she would like me to think she was—I would pretend that she was—and it went on like this. Because she would smile; this was the only time I would ever see her smile, and it made the game worth it. She covered her face with hollowness but when she smiled, it was the only time that she could not hide a little something that still remained, the white cloth. In the early morning I would walk her home, hours only before the light would encroach upon the darkness, and then I would drift through the city of Cologne until the sun came up.

I happened upon her one afternoon on Am Hof, near the Starbucks, in conversation with a couple of young women; the debate—I came to realize it was—had been heated and I could tell she was uncomfortable. Stepping in mid-way through, and standing for a moment to gain some context, I listened until I felt comfortable enough to get involved. Apparently the two women had heard a set of rumors that had been following her and, feeling self-righteous, decided it was up to them, not to inquire but to afflict. She wasn’t especially adept in refuting unjust claims, or standing up for herself, in general; she had exiled herself, after all. It was common, for her, to fight fire with fire and resort, more often than not, to raising her voice and causing more flak. Situations such as this often became a back-and-forth series of insults and name calling. This is why she needed me and it was lucky, I suppose, that I would show up just as I am needed. I began to speak. I was not belittling the two young women but rather helping them to understand the hypocrisy of their behavior, and of their actions. When I spoke to others in this way, as a mediator for her, I could see myself as if speaking through her; a hallucination, with a hue between that of a teal and a celeste that outlined my hands and arms, as if I had been staring at the sun and then closed my eyes only to have a defined light, a crested Déjà vu remain in the darkness. As they left, they left feeling neither accomplished nor discouraged; enough was said, only, to be comfortable going our separate ways, and to move on with our day. Personally I just found it irritating, and irrational, the indigence to force opinions or ideals on to another human being. The acceptance of another’s beliefs does not require you to deny your own, nor does imply that you have. The acceptance of an ideal different from your own both limns and builds compassion and humanity. Unfortunately, for people as a majority, acceptance is an action and therefore it requires effort; this is the type of thing that, in my experience, society does not have time for. We sat down, her and I, and said nothing, instead, we watched the Rhine and the freight, harbor and party boats. She took a deep breath and looked as if she might say something but then decided against it. Later in the afternoon, walking down Am Hof, again past the Starbucks, we stopped and watched a couple try to walk out with ceramic cups, a couple of muffins on plates, and a newspaper; they were having trouble with the door and still we just stood there watching. By the time we thought to help the door was already closing behind them. I overhead the two of them make a comment about a redheaded barista that seemed to be in another world; they had communicated with her but her pale blue eyes were looking through, and past them. She did have a great smile, though. I followed my friend inside the Starbucks for a water. I smiled at the barista and she smiled back.

We went walking by the train tracks, she and I, too old to be balancing along the rails but doing it anyway, and enjoying ourselves; neither of us could get more than a few steps on before shifting our weight too dramatically and falling off. There were clouds in the sky and I claimed that I could feel the occasional drop but I was lying. She just nodded in response. The heat off of a nearby car smelled like crayons, hot wax—or maybe it was the smell of the friction on the rails—I could never figure it out. “Why would it smell so much like crayons?” She just nodded in response. That time I did feel a drop and I could tell that she felt it too because she was looking up at the clouds while still trying to balance on the rails. She had her arms stretched out to her sides and was shifting her weight side to side. We didn’t talk. There were words just not an exchange. I thought about the smile of the barista and smiled to myself. Then I thought about the older couple leaving Starbucks and wondered if we would be that way? She and I. I couldn’t imagine that, at least not exactly.

“Why do you stay here, in Cologne?” I called out to her knowing she would not answer.

She wondered the same thing herself, I’m sure. I think it can be too easy to feel too comfortable in a place, or rather maybe just being too afraid to leave. It is easy to feel too familiar with a place, and once you do everything else may seem foreign. And if you cannot imagine a place, with clarity, it can be frightening. Even if staying in a place that you are familiar with might seem more frightening, or impossible, even. It’s still easier to do than to leave a place. Because, at least, you can picture that place, the place that might be impossible to be. I am afraid of the unknown only if it becomes just like the familiar: the same kind of jobs, the same kind of people, the same kind of places, the same conversations and the same ideals. To me the world is too small because everywhere that I have been has been different only by location—only the street names differ—and, they still lead, only, to more otherwise familiar places. If you never change what is inside of you the world around you will never change, regardless of street names. We were sitting on the tracks now feeling for vibrations and listening for trains. I felt like every time I opened myself up either to pull something out or to put something in, I had become way too familiar with the contents: I had a few books, some loose scraps of paper, a couple pairs of matching socks and others that were no longer matching, tweezers, underwear, pants, batteries both used and new (I could no longer tell the difference); there was never anything in my chest that I did not expect to find. Still, others saw nothing; whether opened or closed, a chest bare and naked, and full and empty and without…

“I don’t know…” I could hear her whisper.

We started walking towards the cathedral, neither of us needed to say anything, it was just that time, again: to sit outside the cathedral staring up as passersby walked between us and the building, their stares torn from the cathedral to us with confusion and pity. There have been times, while her and I are sitting, when her hand had been extended and erect: a sign, in general, to keep their distance; occasionally though, her arm, outstretched would be loose and limp, her hand cupped slightly and fingers bent, slenderly; I have seen this, while others have turned away, as if to accede to her requests. Though unspoken and contradictory, in these moments she is actually, and longingly reaching out to people and for people because nobody can live the way that she has for as long as she has. Our social interactions and our ability to create and build relationships is the reason we do exist; it is not a meaning, and especially not the meaning, our relationships are the foundation of reality, and our society, and our being. It is our own consciousness, collaboratively, that is the action of, and for creation. For those of us who have neared losing this insight entirely we have no choice but to separate ourselves—not from each other—instead from a part of ourselves, so that we do not risk losing our compassion, entirely; we keep that part alive, and if we cannot do so within us, we can allow it to shadow us. There is still a part of me within her, and when she is reaching out for connection with others, even if others are blind to it, that is a part of her and I am grateful for that.

I was watching her late into the evening—before she would leave me sitting here to disappear into the city—her hair, though tied, veiled her face: it was draped over her eyes and even covering her mouth and chin, as it always did yet for one reason or another I never noticed, perhaps I never cared to notice, perhaps I had been too deeply concerned with what she was concealing inside of her. I watched her face as her expressions gave her thoughts and her feelings away as if they were pouring out of a chest of drawers like sand, and like time in the darkness that she had convinced herself that she preferred to the light, and to the people and the schism that had be invented in the ambivalence. I was shocked, at first, at both the expression and the expressionless face that she wore underneath her hair; there was nothing that did not exist within her expression and it was both haunting and inviting, simultaneously.

She shifted and still staring at her I could not be certain if she was looking at me or not, and thinking about it, I cannot be certain that I have ever seen her eyes; directly, or at all. She was as much a mystery to me as to anyone but it is hard to know yourself if you fear yourself more than you have anything. We do not have memories, her and me, shared or respective; this is what will happen when you create a separation, not everything can be kept, and there are sacrifices that are made. There has been nothing beyond the emptiness—or the illusion of the emptiness of the moment—of where she and I have been for as long as either one of us can remember; except one another and of these walks in the evenings and discovering comfort in ourselves and in each other.

We sat that evening under the stars whispering to ourselves and pointing out unusual designs in the night sky that nobody has ever seen or will ever see again, except maybe her and me; if we try real hard and squint our eyes and lie, a little. At night, we are almost always alone, we can still feel everyone around us, and I think that makes life quite a bit easier; just, knowing. She used to tell a story to people about her youth and how if she felt tired or scared or simply felt alone she would find a crowded place and sit, and allow herself to feel the world around her and to be conscious of the world around her. She could never explain it exactly, but she felt as complete and full as she ever had sitting there quiet and alone in the center of the busiest place she could find. She would always contribute it to a visual reminder of her connection with the people around her; this confusion may have led directly to her current state. The reality is-is that it was not her that was reminded visually of the fact that she belonged, in a matter of speaking, to this society—it was, rather—a subconscious connection that had occurred between herself, inasmuch as a self can exist, and that of everything else.

We are all, for the most part, walking around with parts of ourselves separated from the whole, only the illusion was more prominent in some and, as a result, they could not help but to look through me because I was the figment that she had created in order to store a side of herself that she was not willing to let go of. As empty as she had allowed herself to become, as hollow as any of us might become, there will always be something that we cannot hide, something that we will offer to the world whether we want the world to have it or not. I was the manifestation of that something that she could not let go of; stuck both in and out of an empty drawer. I was always there with her as a reflection of her: Her shadow, as some have put it, recognizing a distinction and the differences in her persona that came and went depending on me. When someone condemns themselves they cannot do so entirely from the world, or a society, or from themselves there is no complete distinction that can be made and no separation without some part remaining. This part, eventually, develops a personality of its own and will often become responsible for the manipulation of a number of interactions that you may no longer feel comfortable handling. When her and I would sit on the floor in conversation, in shun of a society that has condemned us and that we have, subsequently, condemned—her hand would be extended to a people with their backs already turned to us, they were walking away and towards and I am the manifestation of her unwillingness to understand the difference.