A Consequence of Lacking

Artist and His Model, 1926, Pablo Picasso (c)

I figured that some things were just left missing. A vacant and hollow space that lacked anything to grasp onto was probably our point of failure. Or at least the mark of something second best, and with any chance of success only applicable if charted into pyramids. But I wonder of the magic hidden within the mix of sand, that tasted of salt, and guilt, and the burden of life. 

It's a coarse road ahead. And yet preaching of self-love, beauty, and all the power they (appear to) hold, make headlines - price tags attached. Sometimes 'bold' yet materialized, numerable empowerment sickens me for its repeated loss of depth. I know what it feels like to put on red lipstick. But I'm sure it's supposed to mean much more than just that. I wish being woman didn't mean bearing the guilt of a built-to-measure existence. 

If I could ask for any kind of power at all, I would wish to just 'be'. 

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Existential Limbo in Digital Space

Cy Twombly, Untitled (New York City), (1968). Courtesy Sotheby's.

All of life now linger in cyberspace. I think part of my existence has died too many times. As a human being only susceptible to what I can bear, in fear of death, I felt the urgency to disconnect. 

A 'death of self' has been a horrid reality to me since the Movement Control Order started in March as I watched the world find alternatives to take shelter in. Although most of these sprouting alternatives are initially planned as temporary solutions, the digital world has become habitable (and more preferred) - just as how it has been through the embrace (and worship) of social media. We've had separate lives all this while, trying to reborn each time; constructing ourselves pixel by pixel, building roofs over our insecurities, finding perfection from over our neighbors' fences, with the worldview through an inverted peephole. 

While this digital domain is mostly a landfill for narcissism that strives under the pretense of a bountiful inter-connected world, I think in that sense, the widening of the playing field has made it a lot more hollow. As far as we try to reach over boundaries that disappear, or if there is any sense of place at all, having separate selves diminish the self that is actually alive and breathing, forms my existential crisis. The experience of shifting to digital space, despite all its convenience, has me floating in limbo. 

Even before the pandemic happened, I felt myself constantly under surveillance which prompted me to carve myself according to ideals. That hasn't made my presence in social media in any way genuine - although anything real is hard to tell. And with the advent of everything going digital, the pandemic has escalated that experience, and I feel more removed from reality than ever. Having my life programmed into this new circuit of an ecosystem, would see myself better off as a machine: getting up each morning with sufficient battery charge, forced to plug-in to life. This sci-fi imagination may just be the tin city dreams of an industrialist, but a future like this might as well have me dead. After all, if there was a possibility to program the entirety of my existence into digital space, I figure, it wouldn't make much difference either way. 

Exploring existence has always left me hung in mid-air, not saying that it is an open-ended conversation, but more in the sense that I would have to face death each time. The whole world inhibiting this invisible space does make things feel a little too congested at times, but at the same time also very empty. Navigating through a dark room makes it difficult when walls are so far apart, or if there is any measure of dimension at all. Gone also is any sense of being, with every atom dispersed into thin air. 

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New Territory

From getting bored with my life, I've gathered the enthusiasm to piece myself with all the vibrant things which I believe... Can pay me all that I am due. If you don't trust me- If you don't believe me- If you need to count on my silver spoons, I wish you'd measure, instead, the saliva spilled over things left unsaid. I am unfulfilled, unbloomed, with no one to blame but myself, and no one else to praise but God.

I was told to make a manuscript of my poems. I've read some to an audience, lost some in my phone (or notebook or drafts), and even made little tents with them. I was always hoping for so much more than La La Land-dimmed photos which never actually show how reading truly felt for me. I always trembled, stuttered, improvised along the way, and reached to the end of my stanzas - never feeling like I was enough. 

Well, as I searched in the room I would find some friendly voices, and then convince myself of some pride. But I found them especially from the shadows I so comfortably slept, against. Under streetlights I marked as landmarks. Under silence, and doubt. I had to grow up to map out how exactly everything played out for me, always coming up with new conclusions each time I cry. I do owe a lot to all the romantic phases I've had, but my visits are cut short now. I cannot word a strand beyond ... this. 

I drink a lot of water but my throat remains dry. I bought myself a new bottle. My handbag has compartments for bottles. I get nervous when I leave my bottle in the car. I cannot spill water, I cannot let it go empty. It must always be full, otherwise I would have to realize that it is there. All over again. Please do not let me characterize my pain, I do not want it there. My metaphors are no longer my place of hiding. My metaphors are no longer mine. 

Now I am always in hiding, choked on my words, gulping on any chance of providing my voice. But this isn't where I start. I will step foot into new territory and try again. 

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