We live in a fascinating and deeply confused age, one in which people would rather be burned alive in the town square than spend a single afternoon unnoticed.
To be invisible today? Ah... that is no longer a modest retreat. It is an act of rebellion. Quiet, shameless, almost aristocratic.
This society has fallen madly in love with the smooth surface of glass. Everything must be framed, filtered, lit by that cold LED glow and displayed like meat hanging in a street market in Marrakesh. People sacrifice mystery, intimacy and a portion of their dignity so that a crowd of strangers can confirm that they are breathing. Without an image, without some proof pressed into a few square centimetres, they feel as though they do not exist.
But they forget an old truth, almost a sacred one: whoever insists on being seen gives up the only power that truly carries weight. The power of observation.
I remember an old friend in Venice, years ago. Lorenzo. He wore heavy ash-grey cashmere scarves that melted into the morning fog over the canals. There was not a single mirror in his apartment. He used to say that a man who stares too long at his own image eventually forgets what colour the world is. When he walked into a noisy salon where everyone was waiting to be admired, Lorenzo would sit in the darkest corner with a glass of grappa. He stayed silent. And within twenty minutes he knew who was in debt, who was lying, and who was ready to sell everything for a little attention.
Why? Because everyone was far too busy playing the role of their life in front of an imaginary camera to notice the man taking notes in the shadows.
I have seen the same scene in offices and meeting rooms. The manager who talks the most in the meeting is rarely the one who knows the most. The one who knows the most is usually the one who has stood at the loading dock, at the front desk, on the night shift, and has seen the work as it is, not as it is reported. Leadership does not begin on the stage. It begins in the corner of the room.
I know. I am writing this on a public website, under my own name. The irony has not escaped me. But writing is not posing. It is taking notes from the corner of the room and sharing them with those who want to see.
In this endless carnival, invisibility is not failure. It is the ultimate luxury. It is a seat in the private box, behind heavy velvet curtains, while the rest of the world sweats on stage for brief applause. When you refuse to play by the rules of the spectacle, something extraordinary happens: they cannot measure you. They cannot package you. And above all, they never quite know where you are coming from.
So let them photograph their plates, let them retouch their wrinkles, let them wait for the world's approval. You simply take a deep breath, enjoy your coffee in peace, and smile.
It is wonderful to be a ghost in a room full of mirrors.