bosnia, bosnia, edwin

     

and in progress

            When you wake up in a house on the upper west side next to a 20 year old wearing his absent mother’s silk robe, and the bracelet you bought in Sarajevo a week prior is broken, to which his response is, “it was trashy, anyway,” you feel as though you might be a bit misplaced. You think for a moment about where you lie, at least spatially. You can’t orient the causality in the events that led you into this space; you couldn’t recite the story to another person if they even asked, because the story wouldn’t feel like your story to narrate. You feel dismembered from your self, you feel as though the concept of “self” is not exactly valid at this moment; the thousand thread-count sheets and sparse town car traffic close in on you so comfortably that your momentary inclination to really assess the situation you’re in flees from the scene just as easily as you have fled from your responsibility to “self”.

Still, you can’t avoid that you feel pathetic, unethical, meaningless, cavernous. A series of anti-attempts to cultivate your voice have brought you to this comfortable place. You had told yourself that it was time to start living unhinged from the voices of others who dictate what or who you should be; you had made the break into simply acting in accordance to your desires, refusing to suppress any desire of your own because if it is “yours,” you should actualize it. And then your self may reveal itself to you in all of its desirous plentitude; and then you might really produce as a result of having finally crafted yourself in harmony to what you have always wanted.

Your hair is curled, you’re a bit too fat, you’ve spent a good chunk of your grant money on discounted clothes you can’t afford otherwise, you can’t find the Serbian liquor you had the night before but take a bottle of Pernod instead, you wait for your 20 year old to call a driver, and you bask in the complete emptiness of your every move.