sensory deprivation

There am I.

Absent-mindedly sitting on a pillow, a glass of milk in my hand. “Cheers.” Yeah, talking to myself too. Not the best first impression, I guess.

Sitting on the ground, staring at the snow white wall in front of me. The carpet is white too, so is the door, and the window frame. In this room, everything is white – everything, but me.

But I do not look at myself. Never seeing myself. Which is, bluntly said, a quite a normal thing. I mean, who can?

But I see the blankness. Bone dry, lurking white army of shallow thoughts. Just drifting, drifting to sink and rise again. In the rhythm of my personal space-time, spent here. Only by myself. One breath after another, ticking away – never to return.

Sensory deprivation is something one should get used to, before trying to spend hours in such a place. Cause it’s a torture at first. Cause it’s boring. Deadly boring. Insanely boring.

But then, your brain starts to entertain itself with patches of color, music playing in your head – if you’re lucky, it’s music you like- patterns of geometric forms, weird thoughts popping up in your mind.

It’s entertainment… Nothing more.

puny guide to stray

The first time I said, I was a stray, was more than a decade ago.

It was after I realized that everything I called home had vanished.

Don’t get me wrong, it was all there, right under my nose. Nothing really disappeared… Not completely though.  Nothing big had changed. But a special something was missing.

I could not attach anymore.

Don’t know why. There was no place I could  fit in. Not anymore.

It was gone. Forever, obliterated from one day to the other.

I was lost. I lost my way…

Looking back, this was the saddest thing happen to me, I guess. It was  killing me.

In my grief about losing home, I started  dashing forward, claiming myself a wanderer. I pretended not to be thrown out of my little paradise. I pretended to explore. I pretended to be free to roam endlessly.

That’s what air roots are about. 

Not the freedom I chose. That kind of freedom is… a lie. I could be free anywhere, if  I’d chose to. Naturally, with all consequences.

The air-root-freedom was just a transient freedom, not needing me to change. Not questioning my motif  was leading nowhere. Merely, I was running away.

I told you. It was an excuse… Compensating, not coping.

There was the glorious life of a stray, without attachments. Very tempting, I’d give you that anytime. No one I needed, no one I cared for, no one I was responsible for/to.  Swampy  sweet ignorance. It always tasted a bit coppery, but as sweet as honey… 

*

But look at it differently:

Did you ever see a true stray?

Not trusting anyone, wandering  around aimlessly… Gaunt, hungry and exhausted. Filthy opportunist, if you ask me. 

Did you ever see how the life of a stray ends? No? It happens every day, every week, every month, every year. You should observe. I’d tell you honestly, if it wouldn’t make my guts twitch…

It ends in trash.

Between trash…. It’s where strays go to end.

Never belonging anywhere.

Never going to be missed.

just for the records…

I guess I´m a lousy recorder.

I record what I want, capricious all the time. Letting half of it unsaid, half vaguely outlined, patches of anything (maybe nothing) in an obscure angle or hard light…

Even truth can be distorted by the viewer, if  he/ she is twisted enough.

Nothing wrong with that, but… There should be more to it, than just functioning perception, don’t you think?  There should be understanding, emphasis to the greater picture. – If there is any at all… 

I should be more interested in what´s beneath, than what’s not functioning. The luxury of existing. All waisted on maintaining efforts to look like everyone else does, functioning  on a daily schedule.

Yes, ma’am.  No, sir. Yes, sir. No, ma´am. Thank you. You´re welcome. Bless you. Have a nice day!

Don’t you feel disgusted too? 

I´d like to say that sincerely. Pathetic-little-me forcing myself into politeness. Scared of what anyone will think of me, judge me…

This is preemptive obedience.  

What a hateful thing…

See, I don´t get it! But this is nothing new.  Most of the time I’m just wondering why I did what I did.

´Cept the functioning part. I understand that pretty well. 

The anatomy and pathophysiology of air roots. -A dissection.

I´ve got air roots.

 That´s an excuse. You know that, if you say you´ve got air roots.

Cheating yourself. This is nothing more than sugar coating the nagging feeling of being… a stray. 

You belong  nowhere. There is no one to belong to. No place you could truly call home. No place you could come home to. No one greeting you. No one saying ‘welcome’. You rest your head in a stranger land, stranger house, tolerated by strangers… 

Your life feels like a hotel room, and you´ve still got your bags unpacked. You are a transient hotel guest. Everything seems to leave the bitter-sour aftertaste of transiency and ephemerality.

You feel random. Random things keep happening. “Everything is replaceable.”

Compensability got under your skin. Every move you make, is a reminder. Futile efforts…

I guess this is why I´m looking so desperate for a meaning.