As a new year begins, one fumbles to discover a new me. New passions, new routines, new people to surround oneself with, new favorite shows, new favorite books, etc. In this constant struggle of trying to reconcile a vague idea of what is perpetual about oneself with a vague idea of what one’s future self should look like, one thing that often comes too short is being at peace with what is already there.

One stumbles through the day, half somnambulant throughout. One criticizes, one bitches, one’s air of dissatisfaction quietly ruining not only one’s own mood but that of everyone one comes into contact with as well.

I… I … I… how one fucking abhorrs that word. How one struggles with accepting one’s identity. How strong the desire to find one, nay, to craft one.

Sitting in a small room in Paris with dark green curtains and an old oak desk like James Franco mistaking himself for a young Allen Ginsberg, looking out of the window with both awe and contempt for the world outside, a current of fresh cold air hitting my face to remind me of both those feelings.

Whatever I have set out to write tonight, it has vanished in that current of air, visbile for a small second as a swivel created by hot air meeting the cold to then forever perish. Coercive tactics to keep control, mixed, as though with an old shaky blender who firemen will soon discover to be at the root of that burned fuse, with resignation, makes for an unwanted yet unstoppable loss of control both freeing and achingly painful.

A cracked mirror is never the problem. An impeccably accurate one is.

The clock on the wall ticks incessantly… so loudly that it makes me want to scream. My scream is stifled. I have no voice.

From outside: a certain stench. The kind that makes you want to throw up yet keeps you looking for its source, just like a traffic accident one cannot keep oneself from admiring from afar like a perversely detached drama unfolding itself in front of one’s eyes for one’s own sick pleasure.

Such a lack of empathy, such detachment. Detachment from them, detachment from myself.

Everything is incoherent. And yet… Incoherence with such precision that the mind draws imaginary lines between all fragments, overburdened by the impossible task of untangling the entangled while connecting what has nothing in common.

I don’t know what I want, I don’t know if there is the need for something new. I know that I like to ponder. To ponder is to wonder. And in a world full of wonders, that is – if I might dare to dabble in the art form of absolute kitsch here for a second – quite wonderful.

To hell with poetry, to hell with style.

Yet then again, I need to first extract myself from that situation if I were to really banish those things from my life.

Obsession with words has come many a times to stifle me.

Obsession with nothing and life becomes a trifle to me.

Breathe. Say it out loud. Breathe.

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