Yhden kuukauden jälkeen...
Jul. 24th, 2008 09:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kyrasantae
Ensimmäinen osa: 16.7.
I am still cutting and pasting photos into my album; near to finishing but almost lacking the drive to finish it off. I have seen these images so many times that I am tired of them, yet I keep looking at them as though to touch the world in them again. But the images themselves are lifeless... moments frozen...
In this laboured existence I know it doesn't belong but I'm tired of people doing/not doing things because of the desire to project some particular social image. It's not that there's no need to be self-conscious, but to be self-conscious only for yourself and not who sees you.
I want to be free to assume the best, not the worst, of other people. I want to trust them, not doubt them. I want never to fear that people talk about me behind my back and cheat or backstab me.
I want to live in a world where children don't live in little protective bubbles of prohibition, because there's no such thing as an innocence that must be preserved. We only make these bubbles because we fear the world threatens this "innocence" and so we are taught to not trust one another. And when one cannot trust the world, it's too easy to believe that the world is against them.
Kaarina pointed out to me the window of what must be an expensive apartment in downtown Helsinki, where a good friend lived until a few months ago, when he shot himself. And for the first time I actually felt a pang of grief when I said "I'm sorry," like it wasn't just a courtesy. There are so many such stories, and the wars, that the collective grief of the nation survives subconsciously. When every moment with anybody could be their last, there's no wasting it or distracting it on random small talk.
And they remember to care for their environment, for every day they are surrounded by forests in their midst and lakes and rivers and water.
Toinen osa: 22.7.
I am a stranger in a familiar land. All too familiar.
I know the customs and the words; I am treated as a native, even though at once I am and am not one of them.
Every action here feels forced, rigid, confined to a standard which present custom dictates: a standard that's perfectly fine for the people here - they don't feel confined by it - but somehow inconsequential for this foreigner. To pretend is to be confined.
Art does not take me home, but it takes me away from everything: away from custom, away from routines, out of boxes... until I am at the moment of release, at which I am dragged back in interruption.
Even more so now than before my existence here seems fake. It also seems inauthentic, except for those moments when I come so close to running free but I am chained here.
I guess it's back to staring out the window... at what? There's nothing to see. No sense of wonder. Nothing new. Just a continent collapsing under the weight of its anxiety, stubbornness, arrogance, and conservatism. I can't see my home out there. It's too far away.
I am still cutting and pasting photos into my album; near to finishing but almost lacking the drive to finish it off. I have seen these images so many times that I am tired of them, yet I keep looking at them as though to touch the world in them again. But the images themselves are lifeless... moments frozen...
In this laboured existence I know it doesn't belong but I'm tired of people doing/not doing things because of the desire to project some particular social image. It's not that there's no need to be self-conscious, but to be self-conscious only for yourself and not who sees you.
I want to be free to assume the best, not the worst, of other people. I want to trust them, not doubt them. I want never to fear that people talk about me behind my back and cheat or backstab me.
I want to live in a world where children don't live in little protective bubbles of prohibition, because there's no such thing as an innocence that must be preserved. We only make these bubbles because we fear the world threatens this "innocence" and so we are taught to not trust one another. And when one cannot trust the world, it's too easy to believe that the world is against them.
Kaarina pointed out to me the window of what must be an expensive apartment in downtown Helsinki, where a good friend lived until a few months ago, when he shot himself. And for the first time I actually felt a pang of grief when I said "I'm sorry," like it wasn't just a courtesy. There are so many such stories, and the wars, that the collective grief of the nation survives subconsciously. When every moment with anybody could be their last, there's no wasting it or distracting it on random small talk.
And they remember to care for their environment, for every day they are surrounded by forests in their midst and lakes and rivers and water.
Toinen osa: 22.7.
I am a stranger in a familiar land. All too familiar.
I know the customs and the words; I am treated as a native, even though at once I am and am not one of them.
Every action here feels forced, rigid, confined to a standard which present custom dictates: a standard that's perfectly fine for the people here - they don't feel confined by it - but somehow inconsequential for this foreigner. To pretend is to be confined.
Art does not take me home, but it takes me away from everything: away from custom, away from routines, out of boxes... until I am at the moment of release, at which I am dragged back in interruption.
Even more so now than before my existence here seems fake. It also seems inauthentic, except for those moments when I come so close to running free but I am chained here.
I guess it's back to staring out the window... at what? There's nothing to see. No sense of wonder. Nothing new. Just a continent collapsing under the weight of its anxiety, stubbornness, arrogance, and conservatism. I can't see my home out there. It's too far away.
