Existing from a distance

Sensations from a guy playing life in spectator mode

The invisible human language

I was digging in old files, torn journals, and ancient versions of myself today. I found this excerpt that captivated me:

The invisible human language: a young man picking up an old lady’s dropped keys by her door, joint laughter at a joke, eruption of cheers and ooo’s when a clumsy waiter drops a plate, light shoulder bumping during rush hour on the street, getting caught staring and simulating staring into space or somewhere behind the person, a child stumbling while running from being unaccustomed to their growing legs, a final teary embrace from a loved one at the airport entrance, flashing the brights of a car to let someone go before you at a stop, a crisp high five, a brotherly pat on the back that says more than words, playful winks, eyebrow raises, touching knees on a first date, the ridiculous semi-jog of someone about to miss their bus, fans cheering and splashing their beer from the stands when their team scores, the high-pitched voice one inevitably puts on when a dog approaches them, a tourist asking for directions from a local utilizing only hand signals, the head bob of someone resisting the urge to sleep, saying sorry or thank you or hello with a simple nod, a crowd gathering around a street musician and his saxophone, saying cheese (or refusing to and instead groaning) before a picture is taken, simultaneous turning of heads at a loud noise, holding the door open for the person behind you, cooks sharing a cigarette in the alley during a long-awaited break, humming a tune, shushing at the library, blowing the candles on a cake, fogging up a window with a warm breath and drawing a smiley face, a dad helping his son pull a fishing rod with a catch on the line, a pencil + paper while bored = tic-tac-toe, cheers, awkward silences, kisses on the forehead, blowing steam on a cold day, sharing an umbrella, making shapes of the clouds, watching the stars on a summer night… Inhale deeply, rub your eyes three times, spin once, click your tongue, crack your index knuckle, empty as many thoughts as possible, and you may start to notice that we were all born fluent.

Journal Entry (3:07 PM, 2/10/25)

Solo trip

I did not remember where or why I wrote that, so I went back into my camera roll to get a better idea of what I was doing. When I saw the pictures, it made sense. On February 10, I wrapped up my last day in Copenhagen and began my journey back to Prague. I now vaguely remember how the entry came to fruition.

I wrote the paragraph on my phone while jumping between the metro and arriving at my gate at the airport. I have it at the bottom of a Google Doc file dedicated to a book I am trying to write that will never be finished, in a section dedicated to “Notes & Ideas” (a lot of what I will write about in the future may be coming from there).

My trip to Copenhagen had not been how I had dreamed it; I had always wanted to go there since I was little. I had planned to go there and share that special experience with someone, but life has a curious way of giving you what you need and not what you want (or maybe I just tell myself that). I went alone, with no plan and a cheap hostel booking. It was a catalyst for me; I had never felt more alone, and now I had to live with that sensation in an entirely different continent and country.

Lego pilot at the Copenhagen Airport

I am still the same person who left for Copenhagen, the same guy who returned from there as well. During that trip, the most vivid memory I have is of silently observing. The serene, yet alienating feeling of being an outsider.

The kids on the metro

When I was on my last metro to the airport, there were two kids causing havoc. They had a stolen mini-shopping cart basket and were riding and drifting it around the train, dodging between people standing and slamming into some. They were having so much fun. I had my travel journal out at that point (I wish I had it now to take a picture… I think it is back at my house), and I made a quick sketch of the kids to remember the moment.

As I was doing that and making little notes about the rest of my trip, I looked around at the others in there with us to see how they were reacting. None of them paid the kids any attention; if they weren’t talking to each other or on their phones, I would have thought they were lost spirits or something. Even when they zoomed past their longer legs or slightly bumped them, the adults would barely even flinch or look down (sometimes I would catch them shake their head and close their eyes in the reflection of the window).

I started smiling, then laughing. How could no one find this amusing? We are alive! Aren’t we?

The kids stopped for a second, hitting their imaginary brakes in front of me, and looked up at me. Have you ever seen a deer at night with your car headlights? That type of unexplainable stare. If I had to guess, they were shocked that someone actually noticed them. Or maybe they thought the guy with a little notebook and a hood over his head (it was cold), laughing to himself, was odd. Then they promptly returned to their shenanigans.

Spectator mode

There was an underlying sadness in my laugh that day, an unspoken loneliness in the journal entry. The piece reads beautifully, explaining the small moments that make us human, that are proof we are living. But if you read it again (or if you read it with the context of my 22 years of life), you’ll notice the narrator (me, haha) is not necessarily a part of these events. He is the weird guy with the notebook on the metro, not the kids with the shopping cart.

The piece is about me, silently sitting in the metro of Copenhagen, grasping and reaching to be a part of something bigger: “…you may start to notice that we were all born fluent." Who the hell is “you" in the piece? Yes, now I am sharing it with the two people who read this Substack (thanks!), but at the time of writing it, it was nothing more than a note for inspiration related to my book. No one was meant to read it besides me.

I am talking to myself; it is a persuasive piece rather than a poem in its most basic form. The invisible speaking to the invisible. I am telling myself that it is worth it, even if I can’t bring myself to believe it, to tell myself, “I speak the language, too.” Most of the time, I feel like I remain mute.

I stare at myself in the mirror now, just as those kids did back then. Equally confused. “When are you going to start living, instead of comfortably watching?” That’s what I heard them say.

Portion of my [Ideas & Notes] section