A Contradiction

It may seem that I contradict myself when I make statements like "I am alone here", when in fact I am in a large, long room occupied by various people. It is debatable, whether or not I am alone, and exactly how large and long this room really is. This owes to the fact that a person standing at any given point in the room very well cannot discern the surrounding walls from the shadows that hide them, obscured as they are by the low light and basic limitations of human sight. I have walked from end to end, trying to count the footsteps it takes to travel the length of each wall. But I never reached the point where I measured my feet and multiplied that by the number of steps taken. No, I always become distracted by some thought or occurrence, lose count or pace before too long, or my mind jumps to some responsibility I had to attend to before I became interested in judging the volume of my container. Anyway, though I have walked from wall to wall in both directions, I still could not draw up a blueprint, even in abstract terms, that could adequately represent this room, which of course is just one wing of a vast complex. I have asked others how deep the foundation of the Great Hall descends underground, how far beyond sight its vaults extend, how many rooms it has, how many elevator shafts, restrooms, security checkpoints, warehouses, etc. I have been given just as many contradictory answers. I am not genuinely alone here, I am amongst those who do not know where they are, who cannot judge height nor distance, nor even remember the particulars of the place where they spend practically their entire lives.

If I am not alone here, then I am at least an apparition, especially when I leave my murky little wing and go on a brisk intellectual walk through the maddeningly bright library. It runs adjacent to my dark quarters, parallel at times. The wall, hundreds of feet high, is made entirely of glass. The light changes with the position of the sun by day, at noon blinding me and then in the evening a pervasive low golden hue, a washed out ochre, the same color as my exhaustion, touches every object. Or if it is raining, it is a pleasant grey with ripples of light cascading through the water coursing over the panes, and everything about you swims. The people swim and do not know it, the tables move about in the current. Books and boxes of documents lay about on the tables, the colors of the bindings and the geometry of the stacks are quite a pleasure after the flat, sea-colored darkness of my room. But out here the people are no different. They still linger above their work, rarely looking up at each other. They still seem deadened, silent, occupied by unfolding worries, completely unaware of the beautiful, kinetic, light-filled world that they have the pleasure every day of knowing. They seem held down by great flows of gravity, as I soar by them, above them, my body as light as a thought. My love makes me ghost-like, my curiosity and the surety of my love. I want to tell them to love their world, it is full of activity, warm light, and people. The people in my wing know only briefly interrupted darkness, and for this we appreciate that other world all the more. Or is it just me? I hardly see anyone else here soaring.