Waiting

Those bits and pieces of wisdom shooting through my neural net – I always underestimate how difficult it is to catch a glance of what just came together disappearing as we speak. Noticing how my response and perception of perceiving lies in shadow and light, moment to moment changing and replacing each other furiously. And then mom came into the room and my heart went hard, ready to feel disbelief and a grand sense of ending it all, as nothing ever breathes like history onto our open neck, silencing us with horror. I don’t want to defend myself, I don’t want to not want because I heard that negative motivation fails, always. The lion or the donkey, both show us who has won. Both know who is waiting.

Boooom. Booom booom booom. Another explosion of guilt, shame and nostalgia running down the spiral of meaninglessness, waiting for chaos to surrender. Tonight I thought it was over, like so many times, just walking away from it all looking back with a sharp eye. Not contemplating, not reflecting, just walking on. Booooom. I hit a yellow wall because my thoughts are gone and my motor functions are on standby, a sensation I had a few times during the last weeks, especially in the city. While lying on my back I see white and feel black but hear grey pigeons dangerously close. I’m almost able to smell them. I smell the monstrosity of artificial dependence. Of the fallacy to discover and search outside in the woods, in the desert, in the mountains, amongst mammals or fish for it disappears in a moment of distraction, never to be found except in the memory of muscles. And again I use the word perception as it rings in my ears so loud that I cannot help but listen and realise its instability, its liminality like a door that cannot be closed. Ever. The leaf is right here in your hand, sticking in the sweat, waiting.

I feel my eyes pulling closer together, my forehead becoming tighter. Behind my eyebrows rages war. A large strong thumb presses and pushes on wet rubber producing a shrill sound while it moves forward in rigid advances. The skin becomes more foreign as it thins and bulges. My tongue sits against the dry ceiling of my mouth, where the front teeth meet the inner gums. With the help of my throat it slowly creates a vacuum trapping the flimsy mucous membrane like pray. Endlessly squeaking. Waiting.

And I can sense the dragon sitting outside the door I’m about to open asking myself if it would disappear if I perceive it as a flower. And it just might. Because I am responsible for my perception of the interface that grants me access to reality. Our constructions pioneer into metaphors that bring us closer to understanding, understanding we so dearly crave. We crave ourselves.


About the author

Karolina: