It’s as if I don’t know you anymore. It’s as if you have transformed into some kind of a genetically-engineered human robot devoid of sense and simplicity as you stood, bold and brave, in front of the class. The way you deliberately let the words come easy as you start the lesson with a mark of inexplicable confidence, the way you look satisfied.
It’s as if I don’t know you anymore. But then, have I really known you at all? You caught me defenseless with your sudden changes as you stormed along the crowded corridors like a pop star, for lack of a better adjective. I mean, you surprised everyone with your metamorphic personality that for a moment there, you had everyone asking if it was you or if it was somebody else.
But I thought you were somebody else.
The way you slipped through the crowd and stood out on that calm Tuesday morning, the way you presented yourself in front of us with an overwhelming smile, the way you took me off guard as you passed by in front of me —slow little steps that seem to take an eternity—and the way you looked at my direction and then looked away.
Inside my head were voices telling me to believe that you have not changed; that the same man, the same professor I have met a year ago is the same person that is still standing at the center of the room, blubbering away incessantly about the dialogues of Plato. But underneath that blue Hollister shirt and your copper-dyed hair is a sign screaming for me to tell that the person in front of the class is a person that has changed, like the rest of the 7,999,999 people living in the planet.
It’s as if I don’t know you anymore.
But what difference does it make in knowing you at all?