I am bored.
I am in a clear room. White walls. White ceiling. White marble floor,polished to an almost uncomfortable perfection.
You would think it's a hospital room. And even worse, except it doesn't have a bed. And it looks too fancy to be one.
In the middle of the room, a man is painting. He is focused deeply so... Very engrossed in his work.
Then he turns.
And he looks straight at the camera.
It's unsettling.
Not because of violence. Not because of anything obvious. But because of the way he looks at it calm, aware, almost too composed.
Then he smiles.
How elegant.
He steps forward.
He pulls a chair closer and sits across from the camera.
He crosses one leg over the other with practiced grace and looks straight into the lens.
Wow… how ordinary.
He carries himself with so much grace. If his appearance matched it completely… what trouble he would be, wouldn't he?
The interviewer speaks off camera.
"Mr. Fallon, how did you end up in this situation?"
He looks down.
Then up.
Then directly into the lens.
Composed. Controlled. Almost too composed.
You can't tell he's sick. You can't tell if anything is wrong with him. But something about the room makes it feel like it is indeed a hospital room.
Even though it doesn't have a bed.
How strange, isn't it?
He speaks.
"Wow… so what?"
"What is life even about?"
"Is it sorrow? Experience? Patience?"
"Not knowing what's above your head… not knowing what's beyond the sky…"
"Always wondering if there's something else out there… always trying to find answers…"
A pause.
"Is it about trying?"
"Because if it's about trying… I did."
"I did try."
"I wanted to become a professional tennis player, so I practiced and practiced and complained."
"I complained… I complained… but I kept practicing. I kept going."
"Then I had to stop."
Another pause
"Then I wanted to become a music writer. I had this affinity with music."
"I wrote songs. I wrote tons. I hummed tones. Recorded them."
"I tried to share them. Tried to sing them in my own voice. Tried to reach out…"
"But it wasn't good enough."
" hah! Mediocre "
"Then I tried to be a writer."
"Well, I wrote a book. I wrote two. Then three. Then four."
"But eventually, the only one reading them… was me."
"I kept coming back to them. Reading and reading and reading…"
"Until it got some kind of ranking."
Another weird pause.
" Now how lame."
"Then I wanted to be a politician."
"I studied history. Wars. Systems. Money."
"I watched the news. I debated. I observed everything."
"I wanted to understand how things worked."
"Then I wanted to be an actor. A singer. A dancer."
The man continues.
He goes on and on about becoming a singer, a dancer, a poet, a professional piano player, an idol, a "beauty."
Each time, he describes the experience behind it.
Each time, he has a reason why he stopped.
He stopped trying.
He doesn't give a clear timeline for how long he tried any of them.
But he always had a reason to stop.
And sometimes the reasons make sense.
Sometimes they don't.
The interviewer, watching, begins to think:
"He keeps going on and on about becoming this… becoming that…"
"But every time, he stops."
"And the reasons… they don't always make sense."
"At least… not fully."
The man then concludes
"I just got bored."
A pause.
The interviewer leans forward slightly.
"If I may ask… I asked how you ended up here, sir, but you haven't answered the question yet."
The man stops.
A beat.
"Oh... Oh yeah did you ? "
"That was your question."
A little pause.
"My, my…"
"Perhaps I got lost somewhere along the way."
The interviewers glance at each other.
An understanding passes between them.
Is this man mad? Or just… gone?
The man continues.
"Shall I tell you my story?"
A pause.
"My, my… where should I start?"
"I am just a shell."
"But my story runs like blood."
"Except blood has a purpose. An origin."
"Mine just runs with the flow."
A pause.
"So… shall I start where blood begins pumping? Hehe "
What an unsettling smile
And charmingly so...
Charmingly unsettling