The tipping urgency of a phone battery dying is unnerving, uncomfortable, as if your existence rests solely on it that while it dwindles, you too, dwindle, recounting it as a punishment for your own profligacy.
Ironically however, relief looms because you are not held responsible for your reprieve. You want to disappear and revel in your underlying fantasy of anonymity. As though there is an invisible helmet over your head, that while you are aware of your own strangeness of being, nobody else knows the bearer of this awkwardness that is you. For that moment, you are free.
But freedom, in its highest regard, exists only in the moments before you exercise them. There is an unwanted fear that surges from your nakedness. Perhaps, a book in your hand amid chattering strangers stands firmer as an ideal and should in fact remain as such. The first few stanzas stare at you glaringly. You look down at the table with that slice of cake you ordered and for a moment, are aware of your hesitation. It is as if you no longer know how to use the fork and knife and it’s a painstaking effort to have to re-learn them, even at 30.
You do all these and in the beginning it all seems thrilling. But we do them knowing that this brief moment of solitude where structure and practice can disintegrate, will come to an end. And that is the necessary condition to freedom. Freedom or our idea of it, are glimpses of self-determination with the certainty that it will not last, because you would not allow that phone to be dead forever.