The Perks of Being Invisible and Not Seeing the Visible
There’s a movie called The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The title itself is a trap: nobody ever talks about the perks of being invisible. Nobody says that being invisible isn’t like a Marvel superpower, but more like a bad real-life joke: being surrounded by people and still feeling like a cheap IKEA cabinet. The movie’s protagonist tries to survive adolescence by hiding in the shadows, with that awkward tenderness of someone who wants to fit in at a party they were never invited to. Basically, the story of all of us who once realized that loneliness isn’t a romantic drama, but a cruel logistics problem.
Being invisible is a lot like being blind in a world that insists on designing itself only for those who can see. I’m not saying this with victimhood; I’m saying it with the irony of someone who has a professional degree waiting for me in a bright, aseptic office, like a ridiculous trophy on a shelf… and yet I can’t go get it because I don’t know the place and no one wanted to go with me. «Personal commitments,» they say. As if my right to celebrate an achievement doesn’t fall into the «important» category. It’s funny: friendship is promoted as this eternal bond, but in practice, it works like Netflix, with an immediate cancellation clause and no refunds.
Hoping to connect with people of value is like sending bottles into the sea during a storm. Sometimes they arrive, but most sink before anyone even reads your message. Invisible, blind, alone… what’s the difference? Social life becomes a chessboard where others are playing chess and you can barely touch the pieces. Of course, when it’s convenient, they’ll show up with speeches like «we’re here for you.» But the week you need something real, tangible, their schedule turns out to be more sacred than the Bible on a Catholic grandmother’s table.
So, like the protagonist of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, I end up betting on my own version of survival. Instead of indie drugs and The Smiths tapes, mine will be to go get the diploma armed with my Ray-Ban Meta, that weird mix between a third-rate cyborg and a clueless tourist. My «friend» will be the AI in the glasses: that robotic voice that will guide me through streets, doors, and stairs, hoping it doesn’t give me instructions like a ’90s GPS: «turn right»… straight into the void of the eighth floor. Imagine the headline: «Recently graduated student achieves academic feat and dies trusting their virtual assistant.» It would be so poetically absurd that Kafka would be proud.
But deep down, there’s a certain beauty in this. Being invisible isn’t always a tragedy: sometimes it’s the ultimate test of autonomy. Yes, it sucks that the world forgets about you when you need company, but it’s also a brutal reminder that medals and degrees are picked up alone, because no one else can carry them for you. Maybe that’s the true perk of being invisible: that when you walk with uncertainty as your only compass, any gesture of company—human or artificial—becomes a luxury. And in the end, if I manage to bring that diploma back in one piece and not splattered on the asphalt, I’ll toast with my AI, even if it’s with the same coldness that Chaplin toasted with a pair of buns on forks.
Invisible, blind, or simply alone: it doesn’t matter. The real danger isn’t the void of the eighth floor, but discovering that, even when you’re surrounded by people, you’re still walking alone.