People often talk about “getting away”, leaving where they are to go some place else, some place where, for a while, it would be somehow better. The sun would shine brighter in this place, the sky would be bluer, and you would be able to take a breath a feel what breathing actually meant. This place would be like “Yesterday”; in it your troubles would seem so far away.
The thing is, no matter how far you go, no matter what distance you travel, you carry all of your shit with you. There is no place on this Earth where you can get away from yourself. And frankly, this is the place where I want to. Way down in Kokomo.
To get out of my head, away from my regular psychosis, insecurities and all other crap that had supposed to have ended with puberty. I wonder how that would be like. To be outside of me, to experience a pure moment of existence, of nothing but being; without pollution of upbringing, education, assigned roles and societal boloney.
Curled up on an uncomfortable chair, my laptop in front of me, cigarette burning in the ashtray, cold coffee at one am, wondering how it would be to just be. Not happy, not unhappy; devoid of all binary oppositions.