I watched one of those old movies the other day—you know, from when nobody wore masks. It was a little disturbing to see all those naked mouths, and sometimes it was tricky to tell what was going ... [+]
I walk to a corner with books in a language I don't understand. The air is filled with the scent of old parchment and faded hints of vanilla. My hand involuntarily reaches forward, driven by an aching curiosity, to grab a book from the shelves of mahogany. I swipe off the thick layer of dust settled upon it in a quick motion. Its hardback cover is a deep blue. The gold engravings on it emit a sheen which seems to waltz with the dim glow of the hanging lights like pixie dust. I flip open and run my fingers across the pages turned a deep yellow, abruptly pausing as I hear a soothing voice beckon:
"TOURIST, WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO?"
A chance encounter, a surge of wonder. I cross paths with a siren-like voice in the corner of a foreign store harbouring books in a language I don't speak. I ponder the chances of my circumstance, breathing slow and steadily.
"Take me on a tour."
The room warps around me, the air sparkles. I become as light as a feather, bright as day. I meet eyes with a million colours as thoughts, rare as peace, flood my mind. As I zip through the phantom tunnel, unbeknownst to all but myself, the voice howls. It clicks with a reverb in my mind. This is Time, along with her passage.
Time saves me a ride atop a swallow's back into a forest. The dance of swans and serpents who slither through cracks in time to brush my feet leaves me standing face-to-face with nature left alone to thrive. To live a life worth decades and feel the earth beneath your feet worth the generations of life that led to you is no small feat. I tour the grounds of toxic waste and let myself sink into its pores. I'll never meet eyes with the dinosaurs, now gone, who used to rule this land, or the tapir who passed where my feet now stand 2 years ago. Some say, "all energy returns somewhere," and I pause to feel theirs coursing through the earth.
Such are the chances I've lost, such are the places I've never made it to as The Tourist.
Through the ages, I've met eyes with family, friends, lovers and enemies— enough for me to ponder the chances of knowing them. Scientists say there's a 1 in 400 trillion chance of you even existing— of your eyes even prying themselves open. So how many chances must you win to meet eyes with another, talk to them, feel their embrace and do it all over again?
Time books me a flight to a friend's place; I've been here a million times. The light dances in her eyes like an infinity of stars. I look up and let my eyes stretch the universe. How did I deserve to win the time of this labyrinth of novas? I wave to Orion and butt heads with Scorpius while Luna's pale glow displays the Solar Nebula like a nocturnal trophy cabinet. I look back into the eyes I've known for a lifetime and feel her breath condense into droplets, mixing with mine. We've both fought journeys to come back to this place over and over. I, The Tourist, collect photographs of the places I love the most; I, The Tourist, remember.
"LOOK AT ME."
Spellbound, I meet eyes with the omniscient Time for the first time. She beams ethereally like a firefly in foggy dusk; her eyes are bright yet lifeless, skin firm yet wrinkled and lips soft yet cracked. I feel her otherworldly warmth radiate like a friend's hug as I submerge myself in her arcane presence.
"IT'S TIME TO GO HOME."
I heaved a soulful exhale; the face of Time is timeless. The scene changes one last time.
My legs, turned frail and seasoned, drag my beat up body back to my suburban apartment. I grasp at air to catch a glimpse of the eyes which once lived here, to the eyes I lost to Beyond. Photographs reminisce in loving memory and altars celebrate my ancestors who lived long before while a chorus of angels sings a hymn for the barks of my late Labrador Retriever. I sink my body into the phantoms that now merely haunt my residence before I feel the touch of a hand, still warm, and meet eyes with its owner. I see a hundred in return and ponder, "what are the chances?" I stand myself up and meet with the eye of the hurricane of life spinning in my apartment. I, The Tourist, have returned home.
I meet eyes with Time for the very last time and I miraculously find my hands wrapped around a dusty book written in a language I don't understand, in a corner of a bookstore out of my hometown, surrounded by words of the here and gone. I flip to the cover; I can't read a single word on it. There was no rhyme or reason to my circumstance— by some capricious turn of luck, I found myself here, woven into a story I'd never intended to tell.
Weary, I watch as Time's slender, soft figure fades into the shelves of mahogany, her voice echoing in a whisper, "every person, feeling and word you know, is a tango with destiny." Like some moment of epiphany, I'm stopped dead in my tracks.
To roll the cosmic dice, to be the last of 400 trillion stars aligning, to win the celestial jackpot is nothing short of a human triumph. The eyes you meet with in time are a million statistical anomalies colliding, a cut-throat game of chance, a rip in Time's fabric and her love child with the Blue Moon.
A chance encounter, a surge of wonder. I cross paths with a siren-like voice in the corner of a foreign store harbouring books in a language I don't speak. Yet, now, I know the magic lies not only in Time's bewitching tricks but also in seemingly ordinary human experiences that may never repeat again in quite the same way. To meet eyes with another, one must win the game of chance before stars map out within your gaze like diamonds embroidered into the cosmos by a rocket's whimsical flight. However, in time, one must also find it in themselves to blink and bid "au revoir" before they begin to weep.
I hear footsteps approaching and a voice uttering words in my native tongue. I beam to myself.
You, The Tourist, meet eyes with me for the first time.
WHEN EYES MEET, SOME SAY IT HAPPENS ONCE IN A BLUE MOON.