(Segment 21)
Chaotic menace hangs about in the early morning mind. It condenses in an otherwise ‘unassuming’ and ‘still’ early morning (lit by a yellow quartz, and blue LED glow). The man’s own thoughts seem to be fleeing him just as he tries to fasten them down in concrete.
PAPER = CONCRETE
He is mildly cold, sitting there on that couch. Would you not be? Elbows tucked, feet crushed, the man’s core body temperature is dropping steadily. The coolth present in all things at this hour is not an aggressive coolth, but an established and self-assured coolth. A dignified and proud coolth, not an uncouth coolth like the coolth of a windy winter’s day.
Seeping into joints, pervading architecture, putting on a theatre performance in an empty park (of course the play would be ill-attended, it is simply too cold at this hour). The man’s consciousness is not dealing with it all that well. This absurd breaking of the pattern – getting up at 3:45 to meditate and write – it’s having a compounding effect of strangeness. Humans make use of schedules and patterns to bring a sense of normalcy and consistency to their lives. He has been breaking the pattern.
SIMPLY NOT ONMY BOY
The furniture is looking to fight with the man, dim lighting accentuating the belligerent stance of wooden frame and cotton façade. Spilt-beer-smell almost hangs in the air. Very fresh. Yes, why not fight the high-backed armchair in the corner? He hasn’t been around that long. Really the man should teach the chair a thing or two for having encroached on his territory.
The man sighs and lets his head fall back. He stares at the ceiling, letting his mouth hang partly open, much like the gaping mouth of one who opts not to breathe through their nose. Thinking takes place intermittently, but when it does, it attempts to be profound in its rather undeserved self-awareness.
He shouldn’t be here, with me. One of us should be sleeping. The pattern is broken and broken again in a vain attempt to uncover a new perspective. 24 fragments of perspective. The man smashes the bathroom mirror in his frustration. Some perspectives simply aren’t endearing – they are hard work. I sit here, cold and alone in my lounge, a lounge that feels completely alien to me at this hour. The reason for my being awake is flimsy at best, self-doubt encroaching on the man that I fabricate to detach myself from the situation. Bodily detachment.
He sits there experiencing, and I sit just behind him, typing away on my computer – yet another middleman of expression. In this case, the man is better off living his own life, attempting to capture it down (his living) only prods and pokes the experiences into hiding. I should not be up, and he should not be up with me. I could sit here endlessly writing this down, or I could do something about it. I could go to sleep. Boundary approaching. Yes, I shall go back to bed.
Instructions
Go to bed when you can