This is Dylan Speaking
This is Dylan speaking. Or writing. The day is bright and cold like the setting of an Orwellian novel. There is this incessant noise of a weed-eater tearing and scuffing the ground outside my balcony door, which lies open to admit the light, and apparently the noise too. That weed eater is working away at the grass like it's some sort of age-old enemy.
There is nothing and no one to save me from the bleak deficit of contact, both emotional and physical of the world outside. Just my mind, my imagination, which at the best of times is more like a minefield than a source of traction.
The weed eater attacks the mind, with its noise, like an age-old enemy.
At the worst of times this mind, it's like empty space, void of all feeling. Indifferent. Void of all contact with human beings. So I suppose I should be grateful for the weedeater. It makes me feel something. I toy with this lack of feeling otherwise, the lack of contact with humanity. And I feel it today even with the weed-eater, like a deeply-embedded nausea.
The neighborhood is particularly textureless from sheer familiarity. Emotionally, I don't know what to make of it. It was better as an empty field. The ants used to bite your feet if you wore sandals. The Owls used to sit on the street lamps and haunt you with their calls.
I am still here after 7 whole years, for reasons I don't fully understand. Maybe I'm just here in this quiet, textureless place, saving up all for what's yet to come. For the universe's big one. Or maybe it's all nothing. Just a waste of time... Nothing seems particularly real today, or any day. But particularly these days of internet and social media and all the rest.
Take the neighbor's contact with me for instance. They seem very "Thin" in terms of their existence. Are they really here? They never engage with me, even when I talk about art. They don't give any feedback on anything I'm interested. Their existence, then is a mere token. They're artists, middle aged lesbian artists, and we should in theory have a lot of common ground to engage in, but in fact, they seem to be intent on ignoring me. That said, they help whenever I'm in a tight spot. Like when I was late for registration with Unisa. Good neighbors, or the ghost of the shadow of the notion of the marginal idea of good neighbors.
People are living somewhere else, it seems. They might as well be on another dimension.
So texturelessness seems to be the theme here. Maybe this is why I've taken to using pencils instead of pens when writing things down. The need to craft something (even if it's only the tip of a pencil into something sharp and able to write). As I looked outside earlier, I noticed that the weedeating man has on a DA T-shirt. How unreal everything seems. Our politics are out of touch with reality. The poor and the rich coming to terms with each other? It's a tenuous dream that everyone tries to hold but keeps slipping. The void of misunderstanding and unreality. No wonder small towns are full of drugged up youth; what difference does it make anyway?
There is nothing and no one to save me from the bleak deficit of contact, both emotional and physical of the world outside. Just my mind, my imagination, which at the best of times is more like a minefield than a source of traction.
The weed eater attacks the mind, with its noise, like an age-old enemy.
At the worst of times this mind, it's like empty space, void of all feeling. Indifferent. Void of all contact with human beings. So I suppose I should be grateful for the weedeater. It makes me feel something. I toy with this lack of feeling otherwise, the lack of contact with humanity. And I feel it today even with the weed-eater, like a deeply-embedded nausea.
The neighborhood is particularly textureless from sheer familiarity. Emotionally, I don't know what to make of it. It was better as an empty field. The ants used to bite your feet if you wore sandals. The Owls used to sit on the street lamps and haunt you with their calls.
I am still here after 7 whole years, for reasons I don't fully understand. Maybe I'm just here in this quiet, textureless place, saving up all for what's yet to come. For the universe's big one. Or maybe it's all nothing. Just a waste of time... Nothing seems particularly real today, or any day. But particularly these days of internet and social media and all the rest.
Take the neighbor's contact with me for instance. They seem very "Thin" in terms of their existence. Are they really here? They never engage with me, even when I talk about art. They don't give any feedback on anything I'm interested. Their existence, then is a mere token. They're artists, middle aged lesbian artists, and we should in theory have a lot of common ground to engage in, but in fact, they seem to be intent on ignoring me. That said, they help whenever I'm in a tight spot. Like when I was late for registration with Unisa. Good neighbors, or the ghost of the shadow of the notion of the marginal idea of good neighbors.
People are living somewhere else, it seems. They might as well be on another dimension.
So texturelessness seems to be the theme here. Maybe this is why I've taken to using pencils instead of pens when writing things down. The need to craft something (even if it's only the tip of a pencil into something sharp and able to write). As I looked outside earlier, I noticed that the weedeating man has on a DA T-shirt. How unreal everything seems. Our politics are out of touch with reality. The poor and the rich coming to terms with each other? It's a tenuous dream that everyone tries to hold but keeps slipping. The void of misunderstanding and unreality. No wonder small towns are full of drugged up youth; what difference does it make anyway?
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