To mature is to reduce. To make life easier for yourself and the people around you. To mature is to make claims and statements about things that’s not yours. This is how you become someone. This is how you die.
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It’s the third day of quarantine. A quick look at the room: a grey rug that covers most of the floor. An armchair in yellow leather. Terribly ugly. Really. And a narrow bed with orange sheets, seemingly from the late 80s. My suitcase on the floor. An unfamiliar, dry smell.
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Through the window I can see the park that used to be a cemetery. A man I once met on the pathway told me so. I then turned around and saw the old tombstones standing here and there in the grass. Of course. I had seen them many times before. Hadn’t I?
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Today a group of gardeners are cutting down of the overgrown vegetation. And part of the trees. Five persons take part in the operation. They are wearing orange and yellow work wears, looking kinda professional. Three white cars standing nearby to support. If needed.
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Yes, it’s happening.
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To exist is to imitate. Imitation is a way to reproduce and to learn. And to bond socially with other people.
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A good imitation starts with imagination. You need to sympathize with your object of imitation. At least if you wanna do it good. And trustworhty. You need to identify yourself with what is being imitated.
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Identification with the imitated object is to exist.
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Some memories are like dreams. Did they ever occur? Or are they made up in retrospect, as a way to make sense of it all? If so: are they a dead end or a way forward? Who decides their authenticity? The past or the future?
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Sometimes – in the middle of everyday life – I forget about it all. Their voices transposes into background noise. A far away twitter, almost like a melody. Not unpleasant. Not at all. But very distant.
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When you stop seeing life as a dream: this is the moment you start dreaming. Only with eyelids shut you’re allowed to enter