Reflections on Visibility

Recently, I came across a thought that completely shifted my perspective: "It is known that all beings differ from each other in their perceptiveness. And wise people say that people (and other intelligent beings) who are on roughly the same part of the moon recognize each other, while the rest don’t even notice them. In the end, people in the main part become invisible to the rest of the world (for example, like Jedi in a crowd). And they walk through crowded streets as if on an empty forest path, invisible to everyone except their own." The author of these lines is Boris Grebenshchikov, a renowned singer, translator, and philosopher. And you know, this thought stuck with me, making me reflect on how I see the world and how the world sees me.

Sometimes, I feel exactly like that—invisible. I walk down the street, surrounded by crowds of people, noise, conversations, and laughter, but it’s as if I’m separated from it all by an invisible wall. It’s like I’m walking on my forest path while the rest of the world lives its life, not noticing me. It’s a strange feeling—both solitary and a little sad. But at the same time, there’s something liberating about it. When you’re "invisible," you can observe, think, and be yourself without adjusting to others’ expectations. No one expects a smile from you, no one demands your attention—you just are, and that’s enough.

But what does it mean to truly "see" another person? Not just to notice them in a crowd, but to really understand, feel, and recognize them? Grebenshchikov says this happens when people are on the same "part of the moon." To me, this feels like an inner synchronization, a resonance with someone on the level of feelings, thoughts, and energy. Sometimes, you meet someone, and from the very first words, you know you’re on the same wavelength. It’s as if you both see the world through the same lens, even if your lives are completely different. In that moment, all the noise around you fades away, and it’s just the two of you, as if the rest of the world has become a backdrop.

I often wonder how many people who could have become close to me pass by simply because we’re not on the same "part of the moon." Maybe we’re just not ready to see each other? Or perhaps I’m too caught up in my thoughts to notice those walking beside me. Honestly, I’m not always open to the world around me. Sometimes, I hide behind my headphones, my thoughts, my invisibility. But what if, in that very moment, someone who could become an important part of my life walks by, and I don’t even look up?

This thought makes me reflect on how I live. Maybe I should be more attentive? Maybe I need to look around more often, not be afraid to meet people’s gazes, not be afraid to be seen? Because if I want to be noticed, I need to take a step toward others myself. Being invisible is comfortable, but it’s lonely. And I don’t want to walk through life alone, even if my "forest path" feels so cozy.

At the same time, I realize that not everyone needs to see me. And I don’t need to see everyone. There are people with whom we simply don’t align, and that’s okay. We can walk side by side but never truly cross paths. And that’s not a bad thing—it’s just life. Each of us is on our own "part of the moon," and our task is to find those who share that same light with us.

Grebenshchikov’s words reminded me that life isn’t just about being seen—it’s also about learning to see. To see the beauty in people, in the world, in the little things. To be open to what the world has to offer. I might not always be visible to everyone, but I can be visible to those who truly matter. And perhaps those encounters are the most precious—the ones that happen when you find someone walking the same path as you.