On the outside, looking in – a melting oil painting transposing into the tears of an imaginary scream reverberating amongst the meninges of your deepest mind. I question, is there a seer glancing at my painting, or am I but a running colour? Oftentimes tangible isolation occurs in our minds, but personally – I’ve become to undergo isolation fits, where I spontaneously detach from the world around me and become but a viewer. This leads me to wonder, are we always viewers?... And every word we speak is but a commercial in the poorly produced cable series we know as life.
Oftentimes, amidst the lights and the buzz and the perpetual continuum of life, I can’t quite place myself. Suddenly, but increasingly frequently, a glaze is placed over my view of the world and I can’t begin to see my place in it : there’s a thickly blurred mist that surrounds me, in which I’m content to stew. I question whether I’m shutting the window of existence on myself, or if the world is genuinely eschewing me with a firm hand. Is such questionability of existence necessary in life, or am I a victim of superficial overthinking driven by a surplus hormonal intake to correct problems my foetus could never conceptualise.
My mind separates from my body, leading me to ponder the necessity of social interaction, in the face of the fickle side of man and the proverbial evil that resides in every core. I’m possessive by nature, and since I can’t seem to hold onto anyone in my life, why should I see there being any anchor in mine own? Unless I’m anchored to myself, in which case – as stated previously, I’ve shut the window in my own face. Now, bear in mind I’m not possessive in the tangible sense, where I feel an entity should be committed to a single scope of my persona – I’m possessive in my delegation of identity. Person A will eventually be allocated a role of x y or z in my life, if I get to know them well enough, and should the roles become questionable where I see the commitment to the designated role in my life becoming an issue of intrinsic conflict, I’m forced to step back and re-evaluate myself in relation to this person.
People hurt me, but I don’t know how or why. I grow instantly disgusted by the presence of identities I’ve been exposed to all day. I withdraw into a tainted shell from which I see the light as intrusive, begging the question of: are we living lives in our shells? Or should we move towards the assaultive forces that drive our mental states to achieve equilibrium?
Why don’t we actually talk about the things that matter to us? Music, movies, books and video games seem to somehow pale in comparison to the underlying matters of conflict that plague every individual. All we ever want is to be missed, to be acknowledged as here or not here and to be thought of, every now and then – as the fragile white kite blows away from the dandelion at the slightest breath, the according reactions to our absence in this life should come as swiftly as the seed leaving it’s home : the feeling of emptiness. We’re vicious creatures. We want to leave an empty space in the world when we die. We want our presence to be mourned because we’ve carved out a place for ourselves in the world and leaving that space hollow would create a deficiency.
You want to leave a deficiency in humanity, you sick son of a bitch.
All I want is my mind to find my body, to stop drifting so far away so suddenly – or to not have to drift alone, but encounter someone who flies kites.
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