the lion roars (1)

the lion roars (1)




The gutter dripped and the rain drops rapped hard on the kitchen window. My eyes were already open. The bedsheets felt cold and damp. The shutters in the living room rattled with the wind gusts.  I’ve been staring at the dark ceiling for nearly three hours. I sat up. Sleep was busy somewhere else.

Another rotten night. Continue reading “the lion roars (1)”

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.

IMG_0532Oriental turtle dove – Streptopelia orientalis

* * *

My favorite addiction is a peculiar hunger…

A hunger for new experiences, new fragrances, tastes and sounds. New optical and tactile impulses… New atmospheres to dip in and dive deep. Soaking up, what the world has to give. The new, the unknown, the strange – bring it on…

Better I rephrase that – my favorite addiction is the confrontation with the strangeness of the world. Meeting it head on.

For me, it is most relaxing to be thrown into a world I do not understand. – Literally. (Well, that might happen on a daily base anyway… because I do not understand the world around me

A language I do not speak, is music, heard for the first time. Opaque and mysterious.

And I love mysteries. I love music. Every kind… The melodious nobility of Japanese, the verbal courtship dance of Portuguese, the smooth sliding of English over rocks and facts (someone forced you into  the Seven-mile-Boots while you were sleeping), the soft marcels of  Italian, the sharp tugging and turning of German…

– It’s like a huge disco party you are not invited, but you sneak in anyway. Or you play Peeping-Tom over illusionary security cameras.

Does this make any sense? The worlds rockets away beside me, and my finger tips brush along, on its surface…

But it’s not only the language, it is the background noises. The way people cross the streets, the metro jingles, the barking of dogs, the birds in another sky. Differing from country  to country – they differ unbelievably. For example, the common raven laughs at you in Japan (Ha-Ha-Ha), but it crows (Kra-kra-kra) at you in Europe. Even the doves coo  in different ways.

You see, there is this fundamental feeling of difference. Of being unlike others around me- the feeling of profound isolation.

Although I know that it  is delusional, on an emotional level, it is my reality. No matter where I go, it keeps me company, therefore it must be originating in me. I’m the epicenter of this (maybe) individual drive.

Now that I think of it…

It thrills me to be looped out, to be clueless. – How irritating…

I observe. I (pretend to)  filter information, like the world is a black box, forcing my own thoughts into it, interpreting, reading notions and impulses…

– Maybe it’s just genuine ignorance…

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.