there is no such thing as a self, only circumstances crashing like waves against the fickle thing we call identity – and i watch helplessly as my body floats through this world, through countries and roles and years, and at times i try desperately to be someone, and at times i am reduced to cleaning myself, feeding, sleeping, a mere animal in capitalism. i never had much of a temperament but there is a part of me that has always yearned for intensity above all else, and i am not sure if underneath it all there is a person trying to break free or if i am simply fog dreaming of materiality (impossible). and all around me there is life – other people with their colourful needs and wants (more important than mine could ever be simply through their urgency), and their social relations, and their beliefs, their baseless convictions, held like something solid. and all around me there is also emptiness – people who have only ever worked and consumed and whose relationships offer no more than a warm body to share a bed with, people whose lives are mathematically impossible (how can they find fulfilment in the same few hours that to me feel like a life sentence of not enough?). i do not understand myself or the world, never have, and i wish i could have kept my promise of being a recluse, of becoming insane – but this too is impossible to reconcile with professionalism (serfdom), reconcile with my old hope of becoming normal, catching up eventually to love and to liveliness and to belonging (too late, someone should have told me). now, i am reduced to a mask and a body, and worst of all it might be enough - enough to feel the wind in my hair while cycling to work (music in my ears, might fly one day, a perfect arch over some boomer‘s windshield), enough to dose dopamine (or whatever) by doing sports (to be able to work longer, but maybe also to run away through the night, a kind of fugue ultramarathon), enough to eat and to sleep and to interact with people all day (superficially but does the ape-brain know the difference?), enough to oil the machine, to forget about the subconscious, be a behaviourist. wasted so much time already wondering why everything feels wrong, whining about the loneliness, the emptiness, the meaninglessness of it all - meanwhile everyone else seems perfectly satisfied not wondering. and maybe there is nothing wrong at all, maybe the sick taste in my mouth could be washed away with some substance, with more media consumption, moving in with someone who does not quite see me and becoming my outer self permanently (is this what other people are? throw a child into the mix and you never have to think about personhood again). and maybe, well, they say there are brains incompatible with neurotypical life… perhaps an explanation for it all, wired wrong – but what difference does it make? i wake up in the same world every day and there is no space in it for me, no vastness to turn to big enough to recover from the life suffered so far. frequently, i think of an old dream: waking up on a planet devoid of people, not having to be anything ever again. and when i am tired (which is all the time now) i think i might want this more than feeling, more than love.
vaporwave
titsay
kaledo-art
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ellievsbear
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janainaart
