Friday, November 29, 2013

Who is to blame?

I shouldn’t read melancholic books, they confuse my thoughts and my feelings and then I can’t tell apart whether it is me or the book that is melancholic. If he doesn’t write, it is good. It means he keeps going and eventually might. But that is only my way of dealing with time. He said, he was at the best place he could possibly be. There is always a backdoor. I keep it unlocked in either direction. Some lock themselves in, thinking about future from underground. Dust is poison that settles on skin, hair, slowly creeping in.

I keep having conversations in my head, about whether I am the only one, having conversations. I do not exist, he says, and suddenly it matters whether he does or not though it doesn’t, but it does. I respond by analyzing it from the objectivist perspective, trying to ignore that my frame of mind is metaphysically leaning towards the subjectivist perspective and what it does to me and how it grows, emergently, and then I hear voices and have to write poetry.

I try to focus but get distracted even by a bug on the window frame, watching it hop from one side to the other, will it make its way out, and what about the lizards chasing the bugs and each other on my wall, is it mine or theirs, the landlord asked me whether I would move out, sooner or later, well, sooner or later I would but not now and actually he didn’t mean it but something else.

And again I am caught between door and frame though there is no between but I push the door every time the breeze tries to pull it, again and again, thinking whether it wants to be pushed or is it me who wants to push it, or is it the breeze, or the frame? I know I just need to get up and walk away towards something different but sometimes I am caught in waiting and watching and it is also an art, this waiting and watching, and when I cannot hold it any longer I push it heavily or let it be pulled and the door shuts with a loud noise and it feels as if something exciting has happened. This is the game.

I read this book which said nothing changes and then suddenly we realise it does and everything is gone to make room for something new. I feel everything changes all the time and I sometimes need to hide myself from something new. I don't grow familiar with rivers carving rocks and if I do, I wipe them off my map, at least I try to. It makes life feel longer, someone said, and is that something good or should it not matter and never be on my mind and then suddenly be gone as if it didn’t matter and all that remains is the feeling that it was good. 

I caught this man in a suit writing on a table cloth, focus, he wrote not realising that I was watching and suddenly he was human and I liked him much better. All that counts is heartbeat. And figuring out when to push and when to pull and when to let go, so we can flow with the stream of consciousness, unconsciously, fueled by a bloodstream of heartbeats without wasting thoughts on what counts and what doesn’t, and then time is over and we never managed to do what ought to be done because we refused to learn to focus. Is it really so, and who is to blame? Sooner or later all will be gone.