The Dream

I miss myself. Seems like something is lost here. I am always searching for it desperately, touching the walls, and wandering in empty corridors and passages. I need to keep my silence, but at the same time during the daylight I talk on and on and on.. like a curse. The curse of language. As soon as something is out there bounded with words, the thing is dead. It's simply like a fish out of her home: water. The outside kills everything. Kills my little pathetic words and ideas. Language, when written or spoken, should be fragmented, minimal, and give the sensation of walking in unconscious. As Marguerite Duras does in her works. She is intuitively drowned in her unconscious without being truly drowned—being dead! She is connected to the unspoken language. To that vital vast non-verbal aspect of being human. And to put this unspoken thing into words? That's my fascination with her. That's where she miraculously emerges. She steps onto the scene of the play, strolling slowly without any extra movement, ready to pin you down on your chair as the spectator or maybe more of a sideliner.  

I have this dream to be drowned in my own unconscious. Or maybe anyone else’s. This would be my glorious final regression to where I belong. This is the eternal tranquility with which I was thrown out from the very moment I was born—the triumph of evolution yet the cosmic failure of self, my-self.