I think I know why it doesn’t work for me. the [things].
I want it to be as messed up and confused as it is in my head, inside, deep in there where it doesn’t matter to anyone but me. where I know where every[thing] is, where I can pick up some[thing] I left in a corner years ago, gathering dust, losing importance, until the moment I need it.
when I try to make sense of [things], it just does not fit anywhere in my mess. the boxes, those neat little boxes we’re supposed to fill diligently, store properly, in an organized, alphabetized way. classified. they just don’t fit. on top of a pile of my own important stuff they sit, not in the least securely, ready to fall, ready to explode on the floor and expose their nonsensical content to
it doesn’t work like that up here, in here. anybody who has set foot inside knows.
it doesn’t work like that
[things][exploded boxes]
Our minds are hardwired to seek patterns, to put the puzzles together and all that…
For me the box was a house. A house I was never allowed in. All I could do was look inside through a window and dream of being inside. I was never gonna get in. Then one day, I saw the sun shining, the grass dancing in the wind, the leaves on the trees rejoicing and I said, FUCK THIS and went for a walk. Not to say I wouldn’t want in the house once in a while, but its always nicer outside. Outside, the house, the box… outside.
I know that house. At night the windows are glowing from a soft candle light in the living room. Walking by, you can peek inside and see… When you’re cold it seems so warm. When you’re lonely it is filled with guests having fun. But when you’re free, you realize that all this is inside. And you’re out. Outside. The passing want to be inside does not even compare to the joy of not having to walk through that door.
Pascale! Je t’ai taguée!
http://finsetspirituels.blogspot.com/2012/03/tague-des-bloyes.html