Being besides yourself

2. January 2015 af Maria Guldager


I have no room for myself

It’s my room

however the insides swallow the title of ownership

As a dense fog covers a moving train

It does not have a grip on me as much as it is conditioning my every action

the tiredness takes up some space

the hunger even more

the lack of them adds supermarket aisles to my rooms’ narrative corner

where the chair is placed in the middle of decorative flowers

the lively numbness ceases to contradict what it’s planted to

the becoming, the originating a self sheets the windows

the restlessness is jumping around on the bruised wooden floor

strangling my hope makes me form widened eyes

it’s still impossible to see how much space is left

on the climb down from the utopian field trip

I can’t clean all the possessions, occasions up

for as I clean I create


and clean spaces wants a certain activity, nothing is ever clean

just for being clean

except for a clean escape

otherwise someone is coming

someone is meant to do something

here, maybe cook,

and by the smell of whatever is happening

I am somewhere outside of myself

my room is floating in an endless sequence of rainy days

bare walls are hosed down from the pouring heaven

the muddy territory is not identifiable

the lack of identification is flooded

with well-intentioned procedures and methods

but no images are left, no reasons left

when my inner resources return

yet its impossible to tell if the drought is over

or just begun

To the phobia I have developed of anything not pulsing

it seems futile to try to occupy the space

with explanations of cause and effect, of inner or outwards

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