The internet, the world online, is a fiction. It is a fiction that seduces me from the possibility of really living. The air I breathe is without oxygen. I can't remember the taste of water. I numb myself with medication, blind myself with the experiences of others.
A home visit. A rehab specialist to fill more pages in a case file with my name but not with me or of me. I don't exist in those pages. The person described in his notes does not exist. The hopeful, ernest woman is a figment, created by me and interpreted by those who come into contact with me.
Who am I? I came here to be an artist. I came here to give birth to something, but instead I am barren of thoughts and ideas. How empty. I want to find something within me to grasp, something to move me forward, someplace to stand so that I can grow.
My head is spinning. Fear fills me again, and I do not know where to seek refuge.
We went to a movie this weekend. I was frightened, not by the images, but because I could not control the volume in the theater. I live in a world where the decibel level is so carefully contained that it cannot shock or hurt me. I've lost the sound of a real world.
I've forgotten the scent of a real flower.
I've forgotten the feel of a knife tearing into my shoulder.
My mind is not where it should be. I need to step out. Where is the window?
The window is getting out of the house.
ReplyDeleteI've noticed since I moved that I've been much more "in touch" with reality. I've been spending more time outside, with more direct exposure to action and consequence.
You're living in an area that spends all its time pretending and putting on pretensions: kind of hard to keep track of reality when no one else lives in reality with you.
You're right; the internet isn't reality and neither is tv. You need to get out in the real world.