Member-only story
BLAME
Reducing my working hours seemed to be a saddening yet efficient choice to be myself again. Finding someone, as if something was amiss. Here I am, and thankfully not the same person as I was, but the grey moodiness withstands any medication and therapeutic walk one may take, suddenly obscuring sleep, allowing you to eat more or to eat less, and making me prone to poetry. Not really to any benefit, to tell the truth.
It seems to me that blaming oneself is both innate and useless. Adding to it the growing evidence of people’s needs for scapegoats. And escaping, of course. But what seems to me like a clumsy relationship created to make sense of the world, is actually a connection made by significance, and meaning. It goes both ways, and tomorrow, I’ll walk home with the bag of lies I told during the day.
Every morning I wake up too early before eating and going back to sleep, too early. Trying to understand if life is all a daze, as a memory of clear days also feels mechanic, forces, faked. I can’t wrap my head around it, but I want my head wrapped. I want to be wrapped, constantly, cocooned in an almost claustrophobic tenderness. Eternally enveloped, which if we are honest, means hugged. Sailing down the repetition of sleep and worry, I find calm in the absence of enlightenment, because if we are being honest, I am no one to tell anyone anything. I’ve done a lot of things wrong, and the best are secrets, and everything else is mine even when it isn’t. Whodunnit, but it’s often me. Poor, victim, hero, martyr. Sand catcher, I come across as jestful and unpredictable; it’s not all wrong.
Zooming in as a way of speed, a high-strung high-view leap of faith: unprotected you live, in a daze, sleeping and questioning sleeping androids, reading books in fractions; still you are here tomorrow. For now, as a temporary ‘very least’.
