Will I ever be able to get up from the floor again?
I wonder for a second while laying on an old carpet that I firmly refuse to hoover. This feels right: here, amongst the tiny traces of past meals and thousands of lost hair strings – I feel comfortable. Even if that does sound like a skewed perception of good companionship.
Down here, the dancing dust specs hypnotise and I lose myself in the moment. I do and think of nothing or anyone, for a while.
An episode of loosing oneself… I wonder why TV hasn’t picked it up or some up-and-coming hot-shot hasn’t written about it on a Shitseller? The brief excellence of nothingness – I would call it that. It could at least be a crappy scene from a 180 min length B-rated movie…
Has a simple, and plain sight become too expensive to afford in the times when one needs to stand out desperately? Where we somehow fooled to believe that nothingness is more magical if you have a handsome partner, or for a different genre – some cigarettes and depressive thoughts?
Props became a necessity. A decoration, to accessorise boring things.
But, my little moments are by myself. Nada included. Just naked kind of boring. And during those, I am glad to be keeping up with the tradition of thoughtless staring at the ceiling from a trashy floor.
Unapologetically boring, but hella present.