Last night I found myself in an apartment. An apartment in a building that was probably built in the 30's. (Soon I suppose I'll have to start saying the 1930's). More specifically I was in the living room of an old apartment. I found myself in the living room of an old apartment with what would appear to be minimally utilized space. There were scanty amounts of familiar furniture that came no where close to filling up the empty space of that very large, high-ceiling(ed?) room. I found myself in a large living room in an old apartment with scanty, mismatched furniture and also hardwood floors. One section of the hardwood floors supported a strange (but not that strange) assortment of bottles, most of which at one time contained alcohol and most of those once contained beer. One of the two renters of the old apartment had a music project going on that involved blowing into bottles.
If the room I found myself in last night were devoid of human beings it would appear very, very empty. (Oh no! its the ol' tree falling in a forest out of anyone's earshot debate, I will leave that be.) However, on this night it felt full...full of commotion and bodies and sounds and lights. In this room I was surrounded by six people as well as a one hundred pound Alaskan Malamute and an orange striped kitten. I was sitting in an oversized green leather chair that the renters (2 of the 6 people in the room) found on the curb like most of the rest of their odd assortment of furniture. It was a comfortable chair and my body was quite relaxed, yet my mind was rather ill-at ease. Lots of conversation was being exchanged in this large, old room last night. The conversation probably took many twists and turns on a variety of topics. I was the only sober person in the room and I felt the most detached. I wasn't listening to anything anyone said. I'm not even quite sure that my ears heard the sounds produced when one of the six other people uttered words. Or 2 of the 6 people or 3 or 4...it all kind of jumbled together into a blah, blah, blah until it was just white noise lost. Mere appearances of meanings and the appearances were lost before translation for me. And I got into a snobby frame of mind feeling that there was no meaning worth deciphering in anything said that night.
Eventually I just zoned out entirely. I cannot recall what I was focused on in my mind, and somehow, despite my detachment, I was very conscious of my being in a room. Of the type of room I was in, of the togetherness of the objects taking up space and the flow of energy moving from one object to another, making the room warm and lively and making me feel deader than dead. An immortal bystander in a world far from frozen, only I feel so cold. I was sharing the oversized chair with one of the two renters. A gorgeous Brazilian girl who I've grown to know well, who I'll never know at all.
For a while I watched the kitten attempt to interact with the dog. The kitten wanted to play and the dog was aloof to these yearnings. The kitten sought out the attention of the dog and always grew fearful and scooted backward when his attempts were even slightly successful. For a moment or so I felt as if I were that kitten because I was so deeply immersed in watching its actions and making sense of its behavior. (I'm not sure whether I was humanizing the cat or if I was allowing the cat to unconsciously felinize me).
Yet in that large living room within that old apartment building on that night I wanted no attention at all. The exchanges of sentences continued for a time period that I had taken no real track of but I knew it had been a while. I eventually became focused on what would be the most respectful method of exiting...the most mannerly means of departing from that large room filled with people who I spend so much time with, who I know so well. I had to leave because I didn't feel like knowing anyone and I had lost all sense of closeness to the people in that room. They were intimately familiar strangers. Like warm blooded ghosts, only I'm the ghost not them. And as much as I find other people transparent, we're all so opaque and alone.
I wanted to leave because I felt like my state of mind was not in accord with the harmonious, jolly-natured air of the living objects within my vicinity. But is it not always the case that there is disharmony between the possesor of "I" and the surrounding "they"? Or could we ever be aware of a harmony between multiple souls if there was such a thing? Maybe while making love or collaborating on creative endeavors or something. I'm not so sure, because I can only be sure of "me" and even that falters from time to time.
Conversing is so much easier and natural-feeling when I'm drunk. I'm currently on a binge of not drinking. I left that room last night uttering "I want to go home". Usually I make up some excuse or act overbearingly apologetic. Last night I found myself in a room and once I found myself there I felt a sort of angered frustration oozing through my nervous system. I felt like an exile surrounded by other exiles who I could not communicate with no matter how many words I put together. So on that night in that big, old room filled with other souls, I chose to use no words. Silence. Until I said "I want to go home"
I am what composes my being and they are what composes theres.
And there is always a void
Between me and Them
And Them and me
And I'm almost always aware of it.
Especially now that I'm sober.
Filled space, filled time
And an eternal emptiness
An emptiness that the life-forms of every epoch perpetually attempt to fill
Until the end.
An end that we're all scared of.
Yet we busy ourselves, often mindlessly
until it reaches us,
or rather we reach it
And on our deathbeds we can't recall what exactly we had done with ourselves
or with time
or with space
And then there's that extra dimension
That one those philosopher's try to put into words and logic
That dimension that is only my own
or your own
or his own
or her own
That private, dusty dimension
That can't ever be explicit to this world that we're exiles in
Even when we want it to be conspicuous
It's never explicable and yet it's the only thing sacred to the self.
And it's often ignored and stifled
and that's what I'm fucking depressed about.