Self portrait day 120
The Nekrit Expanse
It feels late but it is not. Standing, I lean the side of my forehead against the glass pane, 32nd floor view. I watch an airplane take flight in the distant east, Suvarnabhumi International. Last night I saw two planes. It feels late but it is not. This is less-than-four-hour’s-sleep talking to myself. Last week was the most sleep per night per week that I have had since mid-March. Last night was the least sleep of any single night since mid-March. The most, the least. Fission—a juxtaposition brought to light, a transition zone to navigate.
Standing, I lean the side of my forehead against the glass pane, 32nd floor view. I am restless. I am tired. I am coated in a layer of thin soft liquid insulation, an invisible insulation of isolation. Surface tension holds it there. Insulation—the aloneness of the days and the nights, though now with some reprieves: coffees with M, a walking tour with casual friends, the doctor. Insulation—the faceless voiceless online meetings and workshops; disconnected connection. I am tired. I cannot concede that these exchanges are particularly meaningful or effective. They feel false flags. I see them as Band-Aids that no one will miss when they fall off, the wounds having been the invisible kind in the first place.
I am restless; restless in the long haul. I am tired. My 6-year goal poster slash picture calendar is clear evidence that I have not been stationary in any one place for this length of time, over six months now, since September 2015. Though if I count, this is the longest I have been stationary for over 8 years. Eight years of crossing borders, transition zones, on a regular basis. I am reminded of a title-forgotten book, written by someone whose name I cannot remember, referred to me by someone who is absent from this place.
I am tired. The view translucent. The unending self-imposed daily workout challenges serve to keep this colorlessness at bay; but cannot thwart the restlessness. While the walks and the swims tire the body; the mind is tired in a different way that is harder to describe, it is in a state of forced ennui that, by its very nature, cannot come to fruition, decomposition. It is neither bored nor engaged—my cerebral fluid seemingly replaced with something of a much higher viscosity. Signals are transmitted, but they are taking their time, they dawdle. I wander with them, I lose the signal, lose myself. Monkey mind. Translucency, a color defined. I have entered the Nekrit Expanse. My mind is tired in this way—tired of nothing, of inaction, of similarity, of nothing, of the similarity of repeated repetitions of routines. A translucent gas fills my brain.
The view translucent. In my state of unrequited ennui I am both productive and unproductive. I write, I learn, I play, I train, I swim, I walk, I read, I ponder, I draw, I indulge my monkey mind, I explore the rabbit hole, I enjoy myself, I am out of my body. I write. I write. I write. I write. This is mental-tiredness talking, holding pent-up emotion’s hand. They meander aimlessly down the viscous path. Together. Alone. Disconnected connection. I feel it is late but it is not. I am tired. I lean the side of my forehead against the glass pane, 32nd floor view. Standing. The view translucent. I feel it is late but it is not. I am tired. I am not tired. I am tired of nothing. I am not nothing (Day 7). I am the color translucent.
And now I will put myself to bed and dream of sleep. And when I wake up, it will be the same. Standing, I will lean the side of my forehead against the glass pane, 32nd floor view. Nekrit Expanse, translucent gas. Perchance I will glimpse the Sloan Great Wall (Day 19) in the far far far distance and feel relief. It will be early, it may feel late.
Sunday, early of an evening, July 12, 2020 from my bedroom chair