Fluent In Isolation
2015, steel, lead lights, voice recording
Sometimes these thoughts come to me and I feel as if they’re sharp little fishing rods from the past, pinching some nerves that teleport everything except my actual body to some precise moment in the past. A few seconds later (it happens that fast) I am faced with a choice. I could go deeper into them and accept this sort of organic reality that is impossible to prove, or I could quickly focus on the tap dripping in the background, or the barking dog or the clicking of the keyboard, thus returning to whatever flat and uninteresting reality I am synonymous with, randomly and by no will of my own.
When I become fluent in isolation, I will be the king of time.
Almost there.
I’m constantly on the verge of writing something, but it seems reluctant to flow.
Waterfalls are commonly formed when a river is young, but they’re not aware of time. They are like juvenile runaways who never know where they’re going.
I’m trying to freeze-frame it. When I succeed in doing so, it turns deep blue. The deepest shade of electric blue, like a glass blanket that keeps you safe but leaves you completely exposed.
There are a few steps that I have to descend within me to get there letting go of any concrete thought of what I might find there, on that impossibly small plateau, the size of a typical apartment-building balcony. Everything is pretty much there, my very own personal Aleph.
It’s actually even smaller than that, it’s the size of a shoe sole. It’s Funny how they call it the sole of a shoe. I think scientists have proven by now that that’s exactly how much space the soul occupies.
In the nights when I feel like faking patience
Where stillness is nowhere to be found
Only a sense of mellow bone
Melodies on repeat with the volume slightly turned down like haunting sounds from the neighbors
Make words form a bit easier. It is actually
A mirage. They’re still stuck somewhere
Up miraculous but clogged pipes.
From exactly where I’m standing you can see that hilltop, and those people being busy on it. They look like luminous insects that ooze dew when they sweat and brew storms when they fight. Whenever they’re sleepless or incapable of expressing their feelings through embraces or loud noises, they reset the landscape and wake up renewed, they start forming new memories and friendships.
I’m completely alone, they don’t see me. Their brows are tense, facing downward. I can’t feel the wind that’s ruffling their clothes and hair, the air inside and outside me is still, the grass doesn’t grow here.
If I reach out my hand, they are the size of my little finger. If they were to look at me now, as I am measuring them with my rigid palm, it would look like I’m urging them to stop.
Distance is an unpredictable translator.
It’s strange to be here again, in weather like this. With a sun devoid of warmth. It’s just like it was. It feels like a balloon again, like a frail state of imponderability. Almost like I’m somewhere above them, immune to their labour, like they’re dancing in front of me, making crop circles for me to decode.
Let’s say reality happens only once. That would make us feel like we have Alzheimer’s all the time.
Now they’ve set the whole thing on fire. Sending up smoke, as a material offering, up into the sky, as an absent God.
I can hear nothing but my own pulse, as it rhythmically raises my skin in certain places. It’s now explaining what it tried to tell me a long time ago, when I did not speak it’s language.
“Maybe it is nothingness that is real and our entire dream is nonexistent, but in that case we feel that these phrases of music and these notions that exist in relation to our dream must also be nothing. We will perish, but we have for hostages these divine captives who will follow us and share our fate. And death in their company is less bitter, less inglorious, perhaps less probable.” said Proust.
In fact, no one's getting older, everyone is getting younger.
When I become fluent in isolation, I will be the king of time.
Almost there.
I’m constantly on the verge of writing something, but it seems reluctant to flow.
Waterfalls are commonly formed when a river is young, but they’re not aware of time. They are like juvenile runaways who never know where they’re going.
I’m trying to freeze-frame it. When I succeed in doing so, it turns deep blue. The deepest shade of electric blue, like a glass blanket that keeps you safe but leaves you completely exposed.
There are a few steps that I have to descend within me to get there letting go of any concrete thought of what I might find there, on that impossibly small plateau, the size of a typical apartment-building balcony. Everything is pretty much there, my very own personal Aleph.
It’s actually even smaller than that, it’s the size of a shoe sole. It’s Funny how they call it the sole of a shoe. I think scientists have proven by now that that’s exactly how much space the soul occupies.
In the nights when I feel like faking patience
Where stillness is nowhere to be found
Only a sense of mellow bone
Melodies on repeat with the volume slightly turned down like haunting sounds from the neighbors
Make words form a bit easier. It is actually
A mirage. They’re still stuck somewhere
Up miraculous but clogged pipes.
From exactly where I’m standing you can see that hilltop, and those people being busy on it. They look like luminous insects that ooze dew when they sweat and brew storms when they fight. Whenever they’re sleepless or incapable of expressing their feelings through embraces or loud noises, they reset the landscape and wake up renewed, they start forming new memories and friendships.
I’m completely alone, they don’t see me. Their brows are tense, facing downward. I can’t feel the wind that’s ruffling their clothes and hair, the air inside and outside me is still, the grass doesn’t grow here.
If I reach out my hand, they are the size of my little finger. If they were to look at me now, as I am measuring them with my rigid palm, it would look like I’m urging them to stop.
Distance is an unpredictable translator.
It’s strange to be here again, in weather like this. With a sun devoid of warmth. It’s just like it was. It feels like a balloon again, like a frail state of imponderability. Almost like I’m somewhere above them, immune to their labour, like they’re dancing in front of me, making crop circles for me to decode.
Let’s say reality happens only once. That would make us feel like we have Alzheimer’s all the time.
Now they’ve set the whole thing on fire. Sending up smoke, as a material offering, up into the sky, as an absent God.
I can hear nothing but my own pulse, as it rhythmically raises my skin in certain places. It’s now explaining what it tried to tell me a long time ago, when I did not speak it’s language.
“Maybe it is nothingness that is real and our entire dream is nonexistent, but in that case we feel that these phrases of music and these notions that exist in relation to our dream must also be nothing. We will perish, but we have for hostages these divine captives who will follow us and share our fate. And death in their company is less bitter, less inglorious, perhaps less probable.” said Proust.
In fact, no one's getting older, everyone is getting younger.