Thursday, July 5th. 9:25 pm.
The gym is not a place I go to unwind. I do it because it is a part of my routine: it is something I have branded into my life. If it is removed, my lifeline is cut -- my pulse stops.
I ran into someone there today, between the rows and rows of lockers. A man -- fairly average, lean build, messy, brown mousy hair -- talked to me although I did not talk back. He walked with me even as I made a point not to allow him any space to walk alongside me -- only behind. He told me about his family, his life, his desires and ambitions.
I know him well -- yet he knows nothing about me. Not my name, age, height, weight, where I live, with whom I live. Am I married? Am I bachelor? Am I a student or a working individual? He knows nothing. It is within this anonymousness -- this shroud of knowing everything, of everyone and being completely invisible to them at once -- that enraptures me.
His favourite colour is green. He has two pets: a cat named Sly and a dog named Bandit. Uncreative, but I did not mention what animals I live with, if any at all, when he paused for breath in between subjects, as if expecting reciprocation. I remained quiet and attentive, waiting for him to continue.
He has a son. His wife died in a car accident this date last year. He works for the newspaper. He is the Chief Editor. He is a nice man with a normal life. He has a normal salary, has a normal house in this area, and his son has just turned sixteen. He doesn't like meat. He is a vegetarian. He loves animals.
He does not believe in God.