He’s been wandering around the streets for a long time now, knowing them better than most people know their own homes. He lives a ghost-like existence – being treated with shock and apprehension at first at his unnatural appearance, before being ignored and forgotten.
It’s as if the streets became the borderlines of fantasy and reality, and he doesn’t quite know which side he belongs on.
He never knows what to do with himself anymore, and it seems that everyone else doesn’t know either, because they treat his suffering with silence, as if that would magically help ease the pain. They don’t know how to treat or cure it, but he’s pretty sure that if only someone would be willing to take hold of it and smooth it out so it’s not all bunched up and wrinkled with tension, it would help. If only someone wouldn’t look away, and declare the truth that exists already, it would go a long way for someone like him.
“If only” belongs in the plane of fantasy, so when that person who’s willing to do that for him, he can only look on in awe and wonder if he’s been dreaming.