Aimless me

6. February 2015 af Maria Guldager

I ran as fast as I could as the wind was getting up, hoping the frustration of the trees around the fiery lake would also blow away my soul, maybe, disperse it in manifold objects, scatter my storm to unmoveable things, at least the things would be safe for my faith is not strong enough to move them but they would be glowing even on the coldest days, scattered as it would be, there is no curtailing the high intensity of my soul, but spread out over the earth it would leave me to living, the faithlessness that follows the restless in every historic era will be less powerful, when I seem to be right in forgone promises I made up as someone makes up me as I run through the disaster of nature, the I’s soul squirming, trying not to be made out, as a present character enshrined in the memoir or is it a narrative if no one is keeping track of the running existence within the chaos, within the torment, a hidden soul is preposterous, the I is trying to find a way to give in without giving up on the story, trying to find someone to talk to, write to, a partner who does not care about the version, the style of the I, whether it lives or dies, whether it consists of soul or the soul has been materialised, so that I am free to write a past tense tragedy and so that the I am free to entertain the drama in which it constantly finds itself for no conceivable reason at all, at least not conceivable for the readers whom we all know have the final word, which word are we talking about, people, readers, persons in the text wants to know what is going on even before the I is settled on anything besides the automatic of being, it is still running, as it was in the beginning but we are too deep in to go back to the descriptive past tense, for the extent of the struggle exceeds the now abandoned scale as I face death or what one could call the fact of loneliness, the fact of an ultimate alone being, only being fed for the momentary hunger, never able to store up, and as I run the music in my ears is mixed with the waves of the lake and I forget where I’m going for everything is sound, the stunning natures’ raging curls and the impressive instruments insistence on a beat, either is outside of me and yet inside, yet they are meaningful to me by the ear that is helpless without the technology of hearing, and I hear the steps under my hasty feet, wonder how they know how to take me, wonder whose steps they are, do they belong to anyone out there, is anyone searching for the road I’m overtaking with such urgency, on display as I scream the loudest my lungs know how to, so that they might be emptied of despair, so that I might spread my subjectivity to unshakeable objects that will not know my name, but will be full of the burst bundle of contrasts, which was me,  so that my subjectivity will aspire to the objectivity surrounding me, starring at me as my gaze is drowning in the lake and my thoughts are left with silence as their captives, because I belong to no one and the ones I however belong to I run from, for who is the I but a running figure, but a unstable pace of ageing youth and who will I aspire to become, since silence is my only teacher and my mistakes are my only books, in which the darkness gets hold of my perception and still running my fastest, I slip and with my ankle aching, I stay grounded, injured by the I and in the I, with no rest I keep down, with a missing sense of which day it is or might be in the future I tear up my hopes as they seem to have lost their steering power and I close my eyes only to open them on the run from a conversation, the heavens of the conversation opened and down fell as much truth as to quiet my own attempts of honesty, and the truth is unattainable except my need of running and running into my self on the track I see reasons on the move, eating what they have, leaving the selfs’ loneliness to the randomness of attributed relations throughout a the span of life, an organised life with dates to run for, in a body belonging to the continuous sound of acceleration, to the ceaseless momentum of keeping up, with occurrences to run towards, incidental, unplanned and by merely confronting confrontation I get a chance of completing the day, walking to wherever I came from, sleep in which ever house I usually do, fundamentally alone, incessantly carrying my lungs filled with despair, once in a while so beautifully overthrown by something from the outside, beyond reason, something that will reveal the grounds, the premise, of me.

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