It is at Mercer Street today. Compared to the last location, it is pretty far from where I work. After 6pm at Mercer Street, I can talk about myself to M. At 6:07pm, I arrive there looking for the exact spot that will give me the approval signal to talk. I get in when I stop at the intersection between Mercer and Broadway. I start to record things about myself–my past, present and future–as if I am talking to M through my phone. The truth is M will hear everything next day.
To M, I am K. M writes about me. One fifth of our shared time has passed. My book written by M is taking its shape. Who is M? I don’t know, though the thoughtful writing style of M tells me what type of person M is. M respects what I want to say about myself. That is not an easy thing to do. Every so often M adds his or her own thoughts to my story, but to the extent that they are unnoticeable. I assume M is older than me and more prudent than I am. I imagine so.
The last day with M will be about receiving the final piece by M, my book. I sometimes think of meeting M at the places where I have been sending my stories to M. To find M, I could possibly post some of the writings of M on the web and ask my friends to spread them out. That is plausible. But I am afraid. What if it ruins everything (I believe it is the relationship) we’ve built? Maybe M does not want to meet me. M might be engaged in something else. Therefore, I would rather wait for M to find me someday. For now, I keep it as official as it could be. Everyday I wait, though.
Will feeling other people’s inner condition become possible in the future? Could empathy be programmed in our minds?
According to Keysers and Gazzola (2009),