(Segment 16)
I sit here, deeply troubled.
Deeply troubled I sit by myself in my room, late at night.
It’s late at night and I am feeling deeply troubled.
Closed eyes
What troubles me most is perhaps my thinking that I understand why I am feeling this way. It has been a rather standard night of procrastination, staying up late and bruising my corneas. Bruised, red, itchy and scratchy – sometimes I am the show within a show. Logically I introspect, and I feel I understand all of the steps of the night that have resulted in this moment, this feeling. Logically I feel I can justify why these steps have resulted in my feelings; do A and expect B as an outcome. Neglect your work due to high levels of self-doubt and incur yet increased levels of self-doubt as a result. Rinse repeat.
Rinse eyes
The truth is, I can always tell myself I understand why certain emotions come about as the result of certain situations (I do think I am quite good at this usually), but in the end there is always another layer. Take one step further back and realise that I have almost been primed to behave this way. Poor excuse. I wish it was just that sometimes – an excuse. I don’t know how to write these thoughts down with my severely crusted-over eyes. Even if I was pilled up, I still think I wouldn’t be able to do this without staggering. That is partly why I distrust the pseudo-understanding I grant myself – it can only ever be a façade, sitting one layer in from the outer layer.
Eyes primed
I just watched a man who was trapped inside a room for an hour – this equated to one year for him. While he was trapped he attempted to A) write some music, but more difficulty B) not go insane while he did so. Is there a deep and perverted love that lies attached to the things we have to fight most desperately to achieve? The things that we torture ourselves in the pursuit of? Having watched this archive of a year’s work, fully understanding the pain that it caused its creator, I would instantly place myself in the same room for a year. And there is a part of me that is disgusted by that.
Squinting eyes
What am I? This is the haunting question at the back of my mind currently. Confidently I raise my hand and begin to say; “I am a creative person” but just as quickly, the teacher standing at the front of the room yells; “With a little less confidence thank you!”. I don’t know what to tell you anymore, and that is because I struggle to tell myself anything in the first place. This layer stands far back, part of the priming for nights like these. I don’t know how I got here, but I am here. Location: terribly uncertain of myself. This isn’t working.
Imagine this:
I sit in my room, with my overly tired and worn-out eyes closed,
deep relationality forms between the man in his room and me in mine,
I truly appreciate and connect with the result of his being trapped – his creative process
this connection gives me shivers… and I am now at a loss for words because
this simply isn’t transferrable, it doesn’t seem to be