No substitute

Is this all an imaginary life, an imitation of genuine events, persons, emotions, thoughts?

I dreamed again few nights ago. Scenery filled with golden shine, drops of late summer sun. A seaside. Deep blue surface, Trojan blue on the horizon. Sprinkles of light, sparkles and fireflies. There is a young man standing on the shore, looking at the sea. I know it's my son, now grown up, tall, broad shouldered, with a head full of tangled sand-coloured hair. The "little one", shorter, darker, slimmer, holding some of my sister's, my mom's genes, is somewhere else, but I know he's safe; he is the carrier of that feminine silent, unbreakable strength and ambition of maternal side, goddess' side of a family. I know the life has flourished and given me its late, sour but heavenly tasty fruits in return. I can't see the path, but I feel the ordeal, suffering, setbacks, I taste the salt, the bitterness of longings and injustice...and now that sweet honeydrop at my life's sunset.

I can only see a chair's armrest and a thin, much thinner and more tanned than expected, wrap of old woman's flesh covered in pergament skin. My arm. I can see a piece of a sleeve: white thin fabric, like a knitted spider web. But yes, but sleeves are still long and nails are short: it IS me. I am me, soaking the light and breathing the sea breeze; it was foolish to believe I belong with the pale colours and silence of the winter. It was foolish to believe I could not shed the burden I was carrying: thick, swollen and heavy with hurtful words, mocking, humiliating, misunderstanding, judging, blaming, accusing. I see there is a deeper knowledge within my future me; but I can't comprehend, dreaming, yet, why and how have I realised - how to do it; not for anyone else, but  for me. I am close to that breakthrough but still not there.

I know I've  gotten there, eventually. Inevitably.

A book is resting on my knees and it seems it's in Turkish.

You're not reading: you're looking towards the see. Your head is shaved and your beard is white. You could be one, any or none of them; I cannot see your face, shape of your nose or cheeks. And I am waiting for you to turn around.

Wondering: are you a substitute? For a lost life, for a tight youth, for all the losses, all the obedience? And I am wondering: I've changed my life so tectonically, cracking my own core; I've won over my fears, traveled miles and ages, stood in front of the sun in bear's fur, stood with the monsters inside me; stood while disfiguring and melting; I've written and sung and cried my gut until I find a piece of me that was intact and pure.

And I've done it for me; but I've done it because of you.

You've been; you are, a cause to the quest. You are the soul entwined, ambivalent, paradoxical. Everything I've ever learned about and starved to understand - lead me to you. You are the face in front, and behind the mirror. How could I  not know you from a start? How could I, even for a second, think you could be a substitute, copycat, clone, fake rubber doll?

That lonely sandy beach with whispering sand and silent wind is the other world I am looking to you from, after the quest is over.

I am going to become what becomes me.

Don't turn around, I know who you are.

photo: 

http://www.photos-public-domain.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/bright-sun.jpg

Inventarium Teratologicum VII

Može da raste, menja se, ili da, učaurena poput raka, štiti svoje stavove otpornim hitinom. U oba slučaja zatvorena je u svoju samodovoljnost.

Granice su za nju posebno važne; ona ne dozvoljava nedostojnima da ih prekorače.

Njena retorika puna je pabiraka iz nju ejdž knjiga, popularne psihologije i nadojena je korozivnim solipsizmom. Uglavnom naputke shvata ovako: dobro je šta god je meni dobro; svet po sebi nije važan, no moj stav o njemu.

To njen moralni paket čini lakim i besadržajnim. Ona pravi izbor, najčešće sasvim koristoljubiv, osoba prema kojima oseća izvesnu odgovornost. Svi ostali u nekom trenutku biće označeni jednom od zgodnih formula - emocionalni vampiri, toksične osobe, nezreli, nesnađeni, mračni, lenji, prezahtevni, lepljivi, zavisni.

Po pravilu je tokom života bila u jednoj od ovih kategorija.

Čišćenje sopstvenog mulja podrazumeva brisanje sećanja i brisanje svedoka. Ona može da pamti pelin gorkih vremena, ali će blaženo zaboravljati ljude koji su joj u ta doba činili život snošljivim, one nevidljive, slabačke, a ipak voljne ruke koje su je vukle na površinu. Ne; biće uverena da se iz nedoba izbavila sama. Precizno odstranjivanje neželjenih sećanja, i ljudi, ima dva cilja: s jedne strane, toplu, uzbudljivu erekciju samopouzdanja izazvanu tom slatkom lažom: ja sam to učinila svojom snagom! S druge strane, postoji i neko gotovo magijsko mišljenje koje ne želi da malum, zlo, vidi da je još uvek ista, sa istima. Kao da postoji nešto kontagiozno u njihovom dodiru: oni je znaju iz doba zla, mirišu na trulež i jad, i po njima će je zlo opet naći. Nema veze što je vonj dekompozicije njen, bol njen, nemoć njena - oni su nepopravljivo njime kontaminirani.

Može biti vrlo gruba u tom distanciranju, bežanju od zloga, i možete se sasvim nenadano naći u grotlu njenog besa i surovosti, bez ikakve stvarne zasluge, zaprepašćeni njenom teatralnošću, živopisnošću njenog novog ruha, po pravilu tako različnog od pređašnjeg sivila.

Može uporno, predano insitirati na "promeni" i na tome da je sada kvalitativno drugačija, te da ne može da bude odgovorna za vas ili vaše osećaje u vezi s tim. A može i polako devoluirati do neprepoznatljivog stvora debele kože, bez skrupula, bez osećanja za niže, nebitne vrste, neke neotporne, potrošne mekušce.
Paradoksalno, uvek postoji ingeniozni pokušaj racionalizacije te bezosećajnosti - što zapravo govori o tome da, zatrpana ispod sve te teatarske scenografije, leži krivica. Odbrana od nje je na liniji - "svet je takav", "ja brinem za sebe", "slabići će propasti sami od sebe", "ja nisam odgovorna za druge" i sva ta liberalna, pragmatična, nju ejdž skalamerija.

Okružena ljudima koji joj trebaju, površnim prijateljstvima, praznim interakcijama koje je ne dodiruju, ne prodiru kroz njen oklop, ne mreškaju je - i ona sama, postepeno, ostaje bez supstance i konačno bez identiteta.

A to je, možda, i krajnji cilj vratolomne transformacije.

Dajdžest nirvana.

foto: 

http://misterdollface.com/ad/fashion-royalty-dark-narcissus-kyori-nrfbshipper/