Victim of choice

16. February 2015 af Maria Guldager

Doing a hundred things

without thinking of either

with direction breathing down my neck

where did determination go

my restlessness is disguising as hunger

Noticing my breath

I can’t feel my chest

since nothing special is about to happen

no jumping heart is letting me know how to feel

the terror of knowing

the neutral mind reflecting in my hall of mirrors

I listen to the sound of coming home

being the person who just came home

listening

testing

inclined to doubt if this is where I want to be

scrolling through my relations

or the used-to-bees

like a baby in the carriage leaning forward

on the verge of falling out

noticing the lack of opportunities

for becoming someone else

I cry out primitively and this mother-person responds

like she has the slightest ownership over me!

like she knows, understands, feels my pain

I get used to her, we don’t understand one another,

but we blend into one, we fall

into the same pile of actions, motions, we go through it hand in hand

the silent knowhow is how we survive, it is who be have become

one machine, concerned mostly about  food and how to digest it

we are thoughtless like animals, knowing

what is next

crying, laughing, reaching out, throwing the ball

back and forth

like a broken clock

Sometimes I wake up and remember who I am

and I speak as loud as I can

but no one can hear me, the doctor, the friend, the books

they don’t hear me saying

as I have said before:

I didn’t choose to become me!

and yet I choose to be the self I became

without the spread of fear-driven involvement compiled by the release of a steady fate

I would not have embraced the modifications

which suggests the importance of day-to-day life

The one I am is the one I choose to become

and yet I did not choose to become

and my choice of becoming the self now expressed resembles the vague influence anyone has

on becoming a work of art

Coated in culture I say what I say with palms towards the sky

because it’s all I will ever be able to reach

Dipped in a bowl of disconcerted childhood I might not say

what I should say

as the adult I say I am, in garment

required to portray a person who goes along with it

Extracted from the aroma of past tense

I don’t become what I could have

I could have excelled

however, I will underachieve in every aspect of life associated with my person

in sheer defiance of being anyone in the first place

I say that to myself

while abusing my person to achieve love

Don’t feel hunger anymore

maybe the hunger is still there, just hidden

under the failures of the attempts to stay in what I want

to be, to demonstrate, to say,

to say it so clearly

that someone understands, responds to exactly what I have become:

I am an undiscovered planet that no one has set foot on yet

ignorance cast shadows so dark a tone

a darkness not expressed physically but spiritually

I rotate with every season

the moving round and round changes the bridges from earth to earth

changes between people, the strength is between people, the bridges, the earths, the generations, the deteriorations, the progressions

in the behaviour observed in cultures

I ask: what are they doing and why and where are the bridges and why do they not touch me, dig into me, figure me out

I then become the universe in which no one can speak

my emotional blizzard struck hard

and no tongue knows what to do with itself anymore

words chanted in the atmosphere hold no real power anymore, my threats tread their meanings down

peoples’ loaded tongues have no where to cross, no bridge, no hope, no family, nothing but cold water

as I have uprooted my self

let my bridges collapse in my storms of doubt

the changes stand alone, nothing appears to bind them together in meaningful concepts anymore

and out of sheer defiance I work hard to avoid

myself and all their silent words

I strive to become what I want to happen to humanity

but I’m born with hunger

the hunger  gave in to food

enslaved by the same measure,

a sentence for the misfortune of being human,

by which my bread stays bread, the water water

I judge myself

only to loose track of myself

I am no where to be found

people talk again, knowingly

all they do is affecting others

To deceive myself on the silent days, I sleep

with the countries, even the unconfirmed, the emerging nations

and their voices of faith

I assure them they have a place in me

if they know how to built

they keep the sun brightened and the woman reassured of today

as they read my every side, as they, without experiencing my wave of euphoria, sleep with me, as they read they absorb my sleep, read to preserve what passes through them, the light, the purpose, thoughts that comes from looking out of the window, glass surrounded by curtains

only to then delude me into the world of pain, into a low of waiting around for their recognition, a nest full of incompletion

You will be visible, I tell myself chasing the overcoming, I move

while they walk in concrete, for the love of money, walk into stagnation, so locked inside of consciousness

I peel their skin as their infatuation dries

and realise they don’t belong, to any distinct district at all, the countries are blinded

by the rising sun and its streamers of unashamed fire

I love mornings

as much as anxious nights in an anonymous mass of hours in the line waiting for results.

For my own sanity’s sake I must go berserk

tear down my past

with the capacity still in me

that my past didn’t manage to put into a permanent stage of sincere trust

in failure and disturbance, I go berserk

the hunger is raging

the food leaves me to lie around in pieces, in bricks someone somewhere someday will built with

built me up, build me into a castle of someone’s mind

BRIDGES

let me consist of the day

the personified spirit meets

the woman, the woman, the creature of divinity

The day is like the woman:

behaving only in predictable cycles

though set in its ways, foreseeable only to trained experts

she is special in every moment, ageless and yet a bit weary, in love and yet a bit challenged by her whims, in lack, in hope, in advancement,

wearing a mood with so many colours, even the experts can’t decipher

if it is a counter move or an easy breeze from within

she might not feel her heart all the time

but the blood reminds her of her enormous task

in the cold water of the day

I have never been very good at being depressed

God knows I’ve tried

But it takes commitment

continuity

I have to stick with a certain line of thought,

I uselessly try to combat every tempting development

the sound I hear, the intimidation of my body twitching, is the choir singing: I lack talent,

the images of a stranger proliferate, it permeates my wakefulness, the unstopping break of day

alienated from what I was supposed to be

I can go weeks as depressed, I keep things the way they are, I keep out of things, I permit no subjectivity

that fleeting glance of the divine is what bends my falsifying inaction

Some days all I really do is to watch the water pour put of my eyes

until a long-necked flower with its sweet perfume pulls me by the future,

I am released

in a fusion with with everyone else

the spirit in their fume

grips me and nails my corners secrets to the public wall, make them crawl over floors, dragging with them my real face,

that no shyness has ever been a good guard of

a full-strong fragrance is blurring my self-made amnesia and achieves to get a hold of time,

I kneel and hush my mind, time is here, time is identified, located and now entering my loneliness,

the holes are unmistakable, the mistakes is in

my madness over the repetition

which has shrunk just enough to make me sense

what it means to recite, to owe ones existence, to

adapt and be loved

I eat rashly and cover my people in words they are not meant to understand

the excitements eats me

eats the meaning

I just came home, I’ve said without caring too much about what home is,

is supposed to be

Start thinking

stop thinking

surrender to circumstance

is the only thing I am sure not ever to do

except

no sound can get through the rhythm of every-day-life-to-which- I -come-home

and where do you come in

in the imperfect picture of my limping faith

in through the door of the day, the woman, that I

in my sense of security

left half open

perhaps

if not make your own through to me

if you need to built a bridge

so be it.

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