(no subject)
I’m getting off a plane in Delhi. I manage to make it 30 meters before my sympathetic nervous system arcs up and I have to find a bathroom. Three hours later my limbs stop shaking and I can walk again.
I don’t want to be here. I want to be in a temperate climate, somewhere nice and quiet, being reassured of how stupid I’m being for ever thinking that the terrifying scenario in which I find myself would never come to pass.
My foray into this country was never meant to be like this.
I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here.
---
I’m getting off the plane in Christchurch still intoxicated from the day before. A tenacious psychological ache echo’s every physical sensation. I don’t want to be here.
Perhaps I’m just here for lack of a better idea.
There’s a few times I enjoy an experience but those occasions only last a moment. Happiness is such a foreign emotion that it’s incursions are as light to a cave.
I don’t want to be here.
---
I’m getting off a plane in Indonesia. I ignore my baggage and let it go past on the conveyer, taking a moment to collect myself. I’m not confortable. I don’t want to be here.
For the first time I wonder where I would like to be. I wonder if that’s even a realistic place.
Can the speed of a memory be measured? They don't seem to come out in a linear way. They just floop into being, often with the subtly of a sledgehammer. Especially the one's I've thought about before, the things I've read that have echoed aroud my subconscious for weeks, months on end. So it hits me all at once and I bark out a laugh, catching it before it escellates into hysteria.
Sometimes, when this flawed world seems unusually hateful, I wonder if there might have been some other place, far away, where I should have been.
I cannot seem to imagine what that place might be, and if I can't imagine it how can I believe that it exists?
And yet, the universe is so very, very wide that perhaps it might exist anyway?
But the stars are so very, very far away. It would take a long, long time to get there. Even if I knew the way.
And I wonder what I would dream about, if I slept for a long, long time.
---
It’s seven years ago, I’ve just walked into my bedroom and I’m confused. That’s OK. Just accept. Provide physical contact. Hum. Between sobs I’m told how when I was at work my things were gone through. A journal was found and entries were read. Improbably she gets more upset. Eventually she stammers out how she’d pretended I’d not written about someone else, but about her.
I run my hand over her forehead. If her tear soaked eyes could focus she’d have noticed the grimace on my face and the sadness permeating through the rest of my being.
Because I’m thinking about how I’m going to be thinking about that moment and writing this sentence. How I thought I would think that I was thinking about a future marred with a horrible obsidian definitiveness.
Causality arguments supporting and protesting my irrational thought processes are lost in a sea of emotion, tears and subvocalisations as I bury my face in hair.
And I think about the things I'll write. The things I now know I've written. And their sublime nature make everything else look like an offensive imitation.
But they’ll be neither wanted, needed, nor cared about then.
---
I'm getting off a plane in Fuzhou...
I don’t want to be here. I want to be in a temperate climate, somewhere nice and quiet, being reassured of how stupid I’m being for ever thinking that the terrifying scenario in which I find myself would never come to pass.
My foray into this country was never meant to be like this.
I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here.
---
I’m getting off the plane in Christchurch still intoxicated from the day before. A tenacious psychological ache echo’s every physical sensation. I don’t want to be here.
Perhaps I’m just here for lack of a better idea.
There’s a few times I enjoy an experience but those occasions only last a moment. Happiness is such a foreign emotion that it’s incursions are as light to a cave.
I don’t want to be here.
---
I’m getting off a plane in Indonesia. I ignore my baggage and let it go past on the conveyer, taking a moment to collect myself. I’m not confortable. I don’t want to be here.
For the first time I wonder where I would like to be. I wonder if that’s even a realistic place.
Can the speed of a memory be measured? They don't seem to come out in a linear way. They just floop into being, often with the subtly of a sledgehammer. Especially the one's I've thought about before, the things I've read that have echoed aroud my subconscious for weeks, months on end. So it hits me all at once and I bark out a laugh, catching it before it escellates into hysteria.
Sometimes, when this flawed world seems unusually hateful, I wonder if there might have been some other place, far away, where I should have been.
I cannot seem to imagine what that place might be, and if I can't imagine it how can I believe that it exists?
And yet, the universe is so very, very wide that perhaps it might exist anyway?
But the stars are so very, very far away. It would take a long, long time to get there. Even if I knew the way.
And I wonder what I would dream about, if I slept for a long, long time.
---
It’s seven years ago, I’ve just walked into my bedroom and I’m confused. That’s OK. Just accept. Provide physical contact. Hum. Between sobs I’m told how when I was at work my things were gone through. A journal was found and entries were read. Improbably she gets more upset. Eventually she stammers out how she’d pretended I’d not written about someone else, but about her.
I run my hand over her forehead. If her tear soaked eyes could focus she’d have noticed the grimace on my face and the sadness permeating through the rest of my being.
Because I’m thinking about how I’m going to be thinking about that moment and writing this sentence. How I thought I would think that I was thinking about a future marred with a horrible obsidian definitiveness.
Causality arguments supporting and protesting my irrational thought processes are lost in a sea of emotion, tears and subvocalisations as I bury my face in hair.
And I think about the things I'll write. The things I now know I've written. And their sublime nature make everything else look like an offensive imitation.
But they’ll be neither wanted, needed, nor cared about then.
---
I'm getting off a plane in Fuzhou...