Desire for Mania
My eyes were wide, my mouth was wider and squeaking erratic frenzied vowels. My brains were thrown up living room walls, where they dripped down towards the skirting boards. I wasn't distressed just fleetingly home alone, eating cereal and picking shit up.
Before too long, the lights went off again and my cells were gathered back together. As tasks of necessity became pasts of necessity, the rock and hard place metaphor came to mind. I considered it altogether ill-fitting, because if my hard place was a post-work engagement, that would make work my rock. I don't think so.
Although strangers make me look at the ground, I love milling amongst those who aren't anymore. Faces in the distance are scenery; those in screens and memories are nothing when eye contact consumes otherness and insecurity. I tell myself I'm not the only one who can make a smile, until I no longer need to.
Both lurking, but rarely seen at the same time, is my reflex to laugh and a need to scream. I want my aberration, composure and contradictions spewed all over everyone. Evening is the perfect time for some composed fraught. Join me in a cultural space, see me in a head place, find me in my dreams.