Watching the Credits of The Science of Sleep
I imagine myself sitting on the edge of my bathtub, with the water ankle deep and warm, and I am reading a thick book with no pictures in it. My bathroom has beige colors in it, the only exception is the old, aged, forgotten, pitiful leaves of the potpourri. There is no window, only beige walls and tiles and a single beige door in the tiny, coffin-like room. And I read for myself and I kick my toes in the water gently. There is no sun or world to behold me. I am alone, leaning against the cold shower tiles as I sit and read and wet my toes.
And I ask myself, why would I do such a thing for myself? Why would I want to be alone? I don't mean anything to myself. I need someone else.
Am I satisfied with writing about the things that I feel are important? I can't even explain why I care about anything. I just do because I am human. But that isn't enough. Why can't I be satisfied with wanting nothing? Why should I care about anything?
And I ask myself, why would I do such a thing for myself? Why would I want to be alone? I don't mean anything to myself. I need someone else.
Am I satisfied with writing about the things that I feel are important? I can't even explain why I care about anything. I just do because I am human. But that isn't enough. Why can't I be satisfied with wanting nothing? Why should I care about anything?