The Invisible Wall

Many years ago, one random summer in Beijing, I remember the sight of an old man that was like anyone else I've seen before. I was near Wang Fujing, and he seemed to have just came from another planet. His skin was dark and weather worn, his hair matted, his dark thick gray chuba dirty. Holding his prayer wheel, he looked bewildered and lost. The old man knew as much as I, or any other passer-by, that he should not be there, in Wang Fujing, in Beijing. He seemed like a tragic figure, being stranded in a place and time that he did not belong, representing a culture few in the crowd would ever understand. An invisible wall separated him from the rest of the population.

Now, as I try to learn more about his culture, his people, their stories, and any "truth", there always seem to be something holding me back. Like the old Tibetan man of my memories from so many years ago, I seem to be forever seperated - by time, by space, by perscribed facts - from what I want to know and learn about the most. Just like an invisible wall.