I’ve been having a recurring problem in men’s restrooms.
(How’s that for an opening line?)
I walk over to the sink and I wave my hands under the motion-activated faucet; the scary place where electronics and water converge. But nothing happens. The sink doesn’t respond. Eventually, I try the one to the left or the right.
After finally washing my hands, I move over to the motion-activated paper towel dispenser. I wave my hands underneath in various patterns which mimic a variety of signals given by football referees. Nothing. This time there is no alternate location. Sometimes I eventually find the motion which yields the necessary paper to dry my hands. But sometimes I simply give up.
Each time this happens, a voice goes off in my head repeating the same script; “You’re not really here.”
Indeed, since I don’t believe in invisibility, the only possible explanation is that I am not present. Perhaps I don’t exist at all.
In a world where people seek significance above anything else, there’s nothing like thinking that perhaps you don’t exist; that you’re not here.