Lonely Room

The lights enter through the square glasses of the window and lay on the brown-cherry wooden floor. From time to time they shiver, stroke by the branches of the old nut tree from the yard. A small yard run to weed in forty two years of long quiet abeyance. And seasons roll one after another; always knock on the door and always none answer. Reflections of passing clouds come and leave; drops of late cold autumn slip down the window and wash away in heat of summer.

Warm lights of spring lay on the ground and, full of childish hope, enter once again in the room. But to the joy of whom? The room is quiet as a mouse. The bed is made, but empty; the nightstand holds two books, but full of dust: one has leather backs, the other stands almost naked by thick paper cover; the title says “ESCAPE”.

A four on four room with a simple wooden, two doors closet, a small desk in the corner, to the right of the window. The door is closed.

Everything stands still. Still like frozen world in time. If it had not been for the playful lights of the sun, the room would be cold as ancient witches in dead forests. But there is something more in the light than dust particles flying around. There is warm in cold and, therefore, there is life in death. And through the old window’s frame, birds’ peeping breaks the deep silence. It merely looks alive if you listen; but if you took a closer look, you will find…nothing. The silent! Cold nights will speak to it. Yes, from spring to autumn, noises from outside will break through glass and bump into the walls. They will echo in the sunny winter’s days. But, at night, they will all die and reveal the nothingness; because there is nothing here.

Now, the room is empty, but warm, still, but open to sounds; sounds of alarmed voices. Just take a look outside the window: some children are shouting at a boy who tries to jump over the wooden tall fence, back in the alley. Oh! That ball, it must be so important.

From the Unfathomable Self

Cut-off.

Look at the endless water in front of you. Still water. Riveted. Like silence before wildness, the surface is unstirred, till, from the depth, it comes and convulse your entire being; everything that you thought to be an ordinary peace is shattered and mixed up again in an uncontrollable convulsion. It hearts your heart, it breaks your soul, it kills your mind. And you can touch the pain in your chest. It is there. Dormant all these past years, it is now awake and moving. It is alive.

You are alive.

Like seizures, it comes and go, in waves; sometimes you manage to keep your head above the water, some other times you succeed in re-emerge and in some cases part of it never comes back. But every time you drown and, to be honest, it never goes away completely. You wish to drown for good or kill it all, but you tell yourself <if I drown I'll be medically insane and if I erase it all I would be spiritually dead>. So do you let it out?

Addiction. Nightmare. Obsession. Are you an obsessive? Am I one?

Mistaking it for an obsession, you psychologically wound yourself in a battle which is nothing less than a puzzle solving of your own self. An idea or a chemical reaction that triggers your mind? Where does all these sudden obsessions come from? How sick are you?

It is said that what you think defines you. That does not scare me; the fact that I am stuck in the middle of antagonistic feelings that I might not ever fall into place and antithetical worlds scares me. The fact I might imagine all terrifies me.

Blame. Control

You blame that fragile, weak mind of yours and become your greatest and most aggressive critic of yourself. You have lost the control. Because for you it is about control. And improving, and evolution. And creation. Though it may not be the case, you still feel like standing, waiting for something you cannot even name. You falter. You suffocate. You gasp for breath. And desperately try to respire.

Personal toxic air.

But it is toxic air, just enough to keep you on going to the next round. Then it starts all over again. When you said you won the fight, another battle comes: new weapons, different obsession, same enemy: your inner self.

Try breathing smoke. Or, being romantic, try look into the eyes of someone you love or admire and increase that feeling by one hundred. It makes you dizzy. It is like taking in too much air. You do need it, but still makes you suffer. Side effects.

And all that endless still water starts to boil and waves cry out. The process never ends as an underground river powers the entire water. As nature destroys itself and rebuilds itself, you are, theoretical, born to do the same. But you are more prone to fail because of the world we had created. Or, maybe, within the darkest corners of our mind, you find ourselves disordered.

I found out it is not about the two sides: sky and earth, night and day, good and bad, sun and moon, female and male, this and that; I do not have to chose between all of that. I can have it all. It is a matter of how you deal with who you are.

"Got to be who you are in this world" (Denzel Washington on The Equalizer).

Just a question of defining who you are. When I look at me, what do I see?

Breach. Dissociation. Balance

"(...) the division between illusion and reality is one to make (...) I think it says more about lack of knowledge of myself, the desire to escape, to flee who I am and not have the responsibility which I believe one has not to let everything go, which is different than accepting who one is and abandoning oneself to life. (...) To have intimate relationships and reconcile all that noise that I have inside myself to some place of connection with being conscious, this is good. I’m learning, I’m stumbling through life like all of us" (Marton Csokas in an interview for offscreen.com).

Loosing balance in life is just a confirmation of your capabilities of feeling. The line that separates the insane from those who won't hurt others or themselves, is what defines your strength. Either is you who saves yourself or someone else, either you show it or not, either you are or not part of the unfortunate ones that their battle never ends, you are. Yes, you simply are. Engineered to function even with errors, you surprise yourself with hope and dreams. An there, inside you, from every beginning to the every end, there are some connections you cannot define but forever linked to; from here you get your energy, your obsessions, your pain. All you need to do is to work with this emerging crawling noise. If there is someone that could fill part of the gap, it is even better. But till then, try not to muddle your water. Either you convulse it at the right time, or you fail.

Despite what others may say or think, it is far worst. It all comes from the unfathomable self.

When you look at me, what do you see?

Where Paths End

Run on paths of thick wild forests and guide yourself by no compass, no rational choice on junctions or any other logical direction taking, but simply go ahead, one step to follow another, make no sense out of it and watch where you end.

The place you get to, will teach you something; something only you will understand; something that you see, or hear, or feel; something that triggers an emotion from deep within your soul. It may come from the sound of a car, when you had reached a town, or the smell of burning wood from a fire camp; it may be the cold touch of water that makes you shiver on a stormy weather or maybe the sight of a thunder in a far distance, on a heal; it may be the fog sleeping in hollows. It also might come from the sound of autumn leafs crushing under your feet, the cry of an unseen bird, or the sound of a clear river making its way through the logs of old trees. It might be the wind, breathing on highest chines. Yes, it may be the perfume of mountain's flowers or the smell of fresh grass. Not mention the noises of sheep and cows and goats bells while chewing; or the sound of blades cutting grass. And the crickets’ well organized orchestra; and the hum of bears, and the howl of wolves. It may be the cluster of bees or the taste of wild fruits; or you swimming in the lake; or the seeing of a remote hut. Maybe the cry of eagles or falcons, or both. Maybe the scent of moss. Maybe you gasping for the breath while hiking. Maybe the harsh texture of rocks, cliffs and walls. Maybe the touristic painted sign on a wall. Or a carpet of fir needles fallen from a broken old tree. Or the gum tree. Or long branches. Or thick blocks. Or snow on the picks. Or snow creaking under your feet. Or cold. Or hot sun warming the meadows. Or dogs barking and men working on houses. Or day breaking, evening coming and night enlighten by full moon and sparkling stars that seem closer and more beautiful here than anywhere else. It could be the string of a leave, the brown of a cone, the white of a tag, the red of an apple, the purple of a grape, the black of a smoke, the glassy of an ice, the blue of an eye, the texture of a cloud. It could be anything and everything.

It is you who will feel the beats and thrills and bangs and will flutter. You. Because it is you who will give them meaning and they will only find meaning in you. To anyone else, they will be nothing more than parts of the surroundings, things of the world with importance to the ecosystem. But to you, they become golden fish’s dreams come true. They are your own extensions. Fantasies turned into touchable matter of reality. They are life creators and keepers. And you also. This is why you have a connection with them: you both are part of the same world. And you both sustain equally life and death.

So, there is not the paths you plan on taking that matters; no road is as important but one that leads you to finding something you did not pictured in your head before. I have little interest in these kind of paths. Tell me nothing about them. But do let me know what you find when you get where paths end and, moreover, tell me where the paths emerged from.