Is there anything wrong with the mundane? I am staring into a chaotic pile of mess and some randomly scattered boxes, unevenly stuffed with a rather impressively small amount of material belongings, one of the few character traits of mine that I’m somehow proud of is the numb feeling of letting things and people go, with almost the same ”Am I even here?” gaze swallowed by each wave of the Atlantic ocean last weekend on another impromptu “run away from the mundane because it sounds threatening but you don’t even know what the real danger of mundane is if not yourself’ trip except this morning the sea storm is happening inside, the domestic chaos scene echoes loudly in present IPA-drown existence like alarmingly accurate representation of questionable attempts to live, find the will to live, and maybe even enjoy it, the surfers are missing, but the shallow gaze and existence are still here, the only ghosts present in the room this morning no matter how many tries to murder them I have (un)consciously carried out and they are not physical enough to be packed up in one of the boxes for shipping off to the land of the Better Me and Better Tomorrow.
I seem to excel at finding directions in foreign lands, unseen locations, and striking up conversations with accidentally encountered human beings because I believe in the ”I will die alone” philosophy with the same amount of fanaticism as I have of cynicism and that is probably a bit too much, a perfectly functioning survival mechanism it seems from the first glance, but I also excel at constantly failing to apply these skills to anything more than just those moments, floating like a seagull in the strongest wind, I don’t know who I am, I don’t know where I am going, I don’t know where I came from, I don’t know why I am here, I don’t know why I am not here, I don’t know how to find out where I should go, I don’t know how one is supposed to know this, are those who know where they are going gifted, enlightened, are they a different human kind, are they going away from the mundane or is having direction mundane in itself, or am I a product of misunderstanding, failed parenting, failed expectations and self-alienation, am I doomed and simply unlucky to be the maestro of my own path, a gift I never wished to receive and haven’t learned to accept, because the only direction I am capable of leading myself towards blindly is leading myself off a cliff and into the sea, hopefully tightly embracing my boxed up life remains so that I would sink right into the bottom without giving any chance for the survival mechanism to kick in and win me over for another period of self-deception.
The problem or the bliss is the fact that I am actually a pretty decent swimmer. Go figure.
