The wise words of one of my masks.
"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet." - Franz Kafka
The manner in which we wait comes in diverse shapes, our silence takes different meanings and wrapped in this alien world of ours our solitude is created to suit our needs, to open our eyes and lift the veil of a world that we understand differently from everyone else, our eyes turn into spectacles and with each of us their result varies. Eventually, all of us reach that point, the unmasking of the world as we know it, the rapture. It will never hold the same form, it will never be the exactly the same for two subjects, it will never the same length, sometimes it might even go unnoticed because of some tired image someone else gave us, other times it might slip from our embrace like raindrops on a window, moving sluggishly out of our reach because we didn’t have the balls to believe in it.
The same quote I began this post with might have an entirely different meaning to others, and that’s the beauty of it.
The sound a car makes as you drive it can create the most striking song, reaching out to brush your fingertips over kiss bruised lips, someone’s heavy breathing, the sound made by an old book as you change pages and the smell it leaves lingering on your nostrils, the scratching of pen against paper or the tapping of a keyboard. Ecstasy at your feet.
I cherish my seclusion, carry my loneliness in cradled hands, allow a drop of privacy to roll down chin after it kissed my lips. It doesn’t mean I have to be alone, it’s just a sensation I get when I’m working on something. After a while I’ll leave the shelter, share what those feelings gave birth to. It’s a process I’ve mastered almost to perfection, but I must work on the parting. Lonesomeness is such a safe state that it’s hard to leave it behind, to step aside and become a part of something else.
Perhaps I now have the balls to believe in something else, to end my detachment. To find that familiarity and bliss in something else.
Perhaps I’m not making sense…
The manner in which we wait comes in diverse shapes, our silence takes different meanings and wrapped in this alien world of ours our solitude is created to suit our needs, to open our eyes and lift the veil of a world that we understand differently from everyone else, our eyes turn into spectacles and with each of us their result varies. Eventually, all of us reach that point, the unmasking of the world as we know it, the rapture. It will never hold the same form, it will never be the exactly the same for two subjects, it will never the same length, sometimes it might even go unnoticed because of some tired image someone else gave us, other times it might slip from our embrace like raindrops on a window, moving sluggishly out of our reach because we didn’t have the balls to believe in it.
The same quote I began this post with might have an entirely different meaning to others, and that’s the beauty of it.
The sound a car makes as you drive it can create the most striking song, reaching out to brush your fingertips over kiss bruised lips, someone’s heavy breathing, the sound made by an old book as you change pages and the smell it leaves lingering on your nostrils, the scratching of pen against paper or the tapping of a keyboard. Ecstasy at your feet.
I cherish my seclusion, carry my loneliness in cradled hands, allow a drop of privacy to roll down chin after it kissed my lips. It doesn’t mean I have to be alone, it’s just a sensation I get when I’m working on something. After a while I’ll leave the shelter, share what those feelings gave birth to. It’s a process I’ve mastered almost to perfection, but I must work on the parting. Lonesomeness is such a safe state that it’s hard to leave it behind, to step aside and become a part of something else.
Perhaps I now have the balls to believe in something else, to end my detachment. To find that familiarity and bliss in something else.
Perhaps I’m not making sense…