(no subject)
Cyclic
Every morning I wake up reluctantly. It's always to the memory of an event that occurred prior to me waking up, whether it be the ending of the song that just finished on my playlist, my pillow slipping off of the edge of the bed, my blanket slipping off of my toes. I open my eyes and I look around my bedroom, wondering what I was thinking about when that song ended, or when I woke up in that moment of discomfort, or when nothing was happening in my room at all. Every morning, I open up my eyes, sit up, and lift the curtain concealing my bedroom window. I sit still and I stare out at my neighborhood sitting still. I watch the surrounding city from the inside out, while the surrounding city looks at me from the outside in.
And every morning, it makes me wonder if the city stops moving once the sun goes down.
But that’s when I see one car drive slowly down my street. I see one person, in one car, on one street, driving themselves back home. They are clearly in no hurry. They always pull halfway into a driveway, park, wait for a moment, and then step clumsily out of the car. Then, they drag themselves back into their home. I wonder what they think during the ride home and why they are so reluctant to be home again. I wonder why, if they are so reluctant to return home, they come back every single time.
Why, if I am so reluctant to wake, do I wake up every single day? I am clearly in no hurry. I pull halfway into consciousness, wait for a moment, and then step clumsily out from my bed. Then, I drag myself back out of my bedroom. I always move so slowly in the midst of people who seem to rush just to scatter themselves again and again.
Every day, I drag myself wherever I go; a scarecrow. I barely balance myself while walking on jointless, frail legs. My insides constantly escape my body piece by piece. Every strand of myself that I leave behind is a strand that somebody else later approaches and picks up. Every day, I notice the people around me acting in the same manner as I do. Everybody is a scarecrow, walking on legs built barely sturdy enough to support them. Their insides constantly desert them piece by piece. Every strand that they leave behind is a strand that somebody else later approaches and picks up.
For all of us, every step is a struggle on our weak, narrow legs. It’s in that moment that I realize we are all scarecrows, constantly shedding our insides; collecting numerous, small portions of others to replace our own that we have lost.
Every night, after I feel that I have given away a sufficient amount of myself to those around me, I return home. I close my eyes and drag myself back into my bedroom. I am hesitant to enter the same place that, earlier, I was hesitant to leave. Then, I open my eyes, sit, and pull the curtain down to conceal my bedroom window. I sit motionless and imagine the neighborhood, finally motionless, beyond my window.
Every day is the same. Any day, in no particular order, may be different for you or for me. We might engage in an activity that we had not participated in before. However, somebody somewhere has done the exact same thing just prior to us doing it. Somebody will do it tomorrow. It’s all a trade, and likewise. All of our best experiences are shared with others. None is truly unique. Our most private moments have been brought to life by countless other people. We are all cards in a deck dealt to various locations in the world. No matter where we end up, somebody else has been there before. The deck can be shuffled. Each hand of cards changes, but the game is still the same. We may be dealt to the same hand over and over again. We may never see the same hand twice.
Sometimes, I turn up my speakers as high as they can go. I lie down under my desk, so I can literally feel the soundwaves travel through me. I hear voices and sounds as though I am subconsciously speaking to myself. This may seem desperate, but after all, each one of us is living a desperate attempt to stay sane in a world of insanity. We are all living a desperate attempt to find fresh feelings in a world of stale asphyxia. We contradict ourselves shrouded in elephant skin. We hide ourselves from those we long to get to know us. We feed ourselves to those we loathe. Those we hate learn more about us than those we love ever could.
Every night, I force myself back to sleep. I am always hesitant to enter the same sleep that I was, earlier, so hesitant to bring myself out of. I concentrate all of my thoughts on the music speaking to me. I concentrate on the artist, explaining to me the ways that I live my life. I listen to the stories of their experiences. Some match mine, the rest will someday. It’s all a trade, and likewise.
Finally, I drift into sleep; until a song ends, until my pillow slips off the edge of the bed, until my blanket slips away from my toes. Then I open my eyes and I look around my bedroom, wondering what I was thinking about when that song ended, or when I woke up in that moment of discomfort, or when nothing was happening in my room at all. Every morning, I reluctantly open my eyes, sit up, and lift the curtain concealing my bedroom window. I sit still, and I stare out at my neighborhood sitting still. I watch the surrounding city from the inside out, while the surrounding city looks at me from the outside in.