“Where can I leave my belongings?”
“Keep it, you are the safest seal. You feel insecure?”
“No, not at all.”
“Why you ask though?”
“Not sure, it´s kind of a question you ask, if you are new at a place, you are not used to be.”
“Why are you here?”
“To experience the difference. To explore what makes us equal. To exploit the What, the What, which does lots of things – a nameless, amorphous, soulless, unborn dead and obtrusive It, doing it. Manifesting. Maintaining. Obstructing. Changing. Leveling to the ground, created by man. Finally, exploit myself, I guess. And I just started, my period of being an outlaw. So you think I don´t have to trust, because people trust me, because they are scared?”
“I didn´t asked you to have trust, I asked for what reasons are you here?”
“And I said, I don´t have to trust my path.”
“So why you ask me if your belongings are safe?”
“I don´t know! Because this are my belongings, all what I have. If I loose them, I am a bit of fucked. So I need them, to survive.”
“You need food and shelter to survive.”
“I need money to afford food and shelter. And yes, I am worried about my survival. I do care still of materialism. I need to possess, we are possessed of possession. Ah I don´t move forward at all. Knee-deep in thick mud, every step I make feels like battling stagnancy, a deadlock or backlash. My head is my tail, to orient myself, not to walk against walls or the horizon. Trapped beyond the cage, fearing the world outside. Siem Reap is a weird place. If I would believe in something, I claimed this town never bridged. It´s a ruin of trials and errors, of debility and fallibility. It´s heaven, an omnipotent standstill, clouds resting in shadows, light breathing the sun, frogs kissing queens. And nothing left. I feel insecure. I don´t trust myself in this town.”
“You should leave than.”
“I should.”
“Why don´t you?”
“I don´t know. I am lethargic laziness. I´d love to sleep. I have such a strong desire to sleep. My jaw, my teeth hurt, they have to sustain my grinding minds, every night, half asleep, I listen to myself, me, trying to piss me off – Shut da fuck up!”
“I think you should leave your stuff here, I take care of it.”
When I said that, tears were running down my cheeks.
One more week, left behind.
A cockroach trapped on its back, struggling furious, to bounce back, escaping the siem reaper. It’s sunday. Like every sunday. I find myself in between again. Unbalanced. Nothing what is, just life how it shouldn’t end. I miss the heat of the night, but only the romantic charism, the possibilites, the possibility of possibilities, if possible. Not the recurring chitchats, gossip sips, the wasteland of mindlessness, the fading desires, extinguished falling stars, deformed by hollow illusions. I see queens, I see kings. I see what I can imagine. I see what I can treat. I can’t treat being me. My parents told me to look first on me, to dress myself in white and tight, prim present and masked and drowned in descent success.
Not moony.
Not sunny.
Who am I?
Am I safe?
Do I save?
I rest, quartered and buried inside the vicious circle of circlelessness. Sort out the corners of the edges.
I wanna feel that I am at a right place.
How does wrong feels like?
Function one: be. And by the matter of fact that being is barely avoidable: save.
