A day is going to come when you are suddenly in the graces of amnesia. All of the leaden and pain in your heart will dissolve into collapsing dust clouds, and you may look people in the eyes again, because they are all strangers. Confused strangers. Storytelling strangers with strange convictions about you. Emotional strangers haunted by ghosts which they think inhabit you: they beg of you to remember, and all you can do in response is to look at them tenderly and benevolently. One must be forgiving with the sick. One must feel fortunate to not be under the weight of the past, to be liberated, to be out of touch and harm. Undisturbed sleep is a privilege, wakefulness a nightmare-ridden curse. Your life will be retrieved from the chemical waters like developed pictures, coloured in the sepia of olden days: it will seem softened and nostalgic, with the halcyon hue only to be found in dream. Your body will no longer stop in its tracks in reminiscence, and your perspective will be nothing short of a camera obscura displaying the larger truth, and hiding the state of the chamber of retrospection—it is dark and damp, but no longer noticeable. Your apartment will no longer be heavy with remnants of past visitants and storms, it will be a space unspoiled: in it, you will be safe and cloistered like the pearl in the shell. Time passes freely, it is not constrained by external parameters, only that of your own pulse. You eat, you breathe, you tread, you observe, you remain. You do not cling to things but let them pass, and they let you do the same, unruffled. Things merely seem, display themselves in shapes and vistas, only to fade away or amalgamate against the background. Ideas are entertained, never chased or prisoned. Words are not forced and silence is sovereign. Eyes may speak in words stead, since they latter often are empty. All is stung and slightly tender with a blithe fugue: the rosy fog of abstracted abstraction. Nothing touches or reaches through the barriers of peace. Smiling is an easier endeavour, without its previous implications. Crowned in Solitude, one may at last put the nerves to rest. Moving through the world will be as seamless as the flow of the stream, as the foliage in the wind.
Vera is a Scandinavian writer and philosophy graduate from Sweden, with a great interest in language, the Arts and all things hidden.
Litehouse 