This monotonous drone makes me sleepy. I mustn’t fall asleep. I drink some of my juice; with a straw; always with a straw. I can’t remember how long ago I drank something directly from a glass. It’s been a long time since the last time I’ve done many things actually, like go to the toilet, sleep on a bed, run, cry.
This monotonous drone is driving me crazy. Gives me headaches. I have to stay cool. I MUST stay cool. I don’t have a choice. I’m the only one responsible for myself. A single msitake and I’m gone. Sometimes I don’t really care. Sometimes I really want to be gone. But this lacerative survival instinct keeps me alive. I’d like to know who the hell put it in us and for what reason.
This drone makes me numb. I smile and let it go. It’s pointless to fight it. I have to face my fate. I don’t even remember for how long I have been living in this state. I can’t count the days anyway; neither the months or the hours. Numbers. Numbers everywhere. So many numbers that they’ve lost their sense. Sometimes I count my breaths. Deep. Long. Suffocative. The air is not enough. I check the oxygen levels. Normal. Panic. It’s that panic again.
The drone is my one and only friend. Sometimes I think I hear some clear words through the humming. “Home”, “food”, “love”, “sun”, “party”, “mom”, “kiss”, “feel”, “friends”, “life”. Life. Life. L-i-f-e. “Liiiiiife”. The drone speaks the words. The Drone. My friend. I am lucky to have him. Him?
I’m struggling to remember. I have no memories. I’ve erased all memories to fill my brain with information and knowledge necessary for my job. To survive. Now I’m trying to remember them. Every single “day”. I don’t even know what “day” is anymore. It’s strange how words have lost their meaning here… I have to find new ones. I create my own words. Ok. Let’s see. No-day. I’ll call it no-day because days here don’t exist. Every no-day I’m trying to remember. But I’m sure what I have in my head is not actually memories. It’s just pictures of my imagination. I’ve created them. I’ve created false memories to feel I have cause. I’ve lost my cause. No one lives without a cause. Yet, this god damned survival instinct… Who the fuck put it in us? Who the fuck…
Round and round and round and round… I let my body free to swirl. My mind disperses everywhere in space. Time is circular and spiral. I close my eyes and feel becoming a perfect circle; and then a sphere. I begin and end at the same point. Everything returns to the point where it began; everything, except me. Return. “Reeetuuuurn”, the drone repeats slow and low.
I teach him new words; just to hear him talking. The word “return” is precious. I feel dizzy. It doesn’t matter. No one cares. I’m not allowed to not feel ok. I am not allowed to let myself die. Survival. Who’s the fucking idiot that put it in us? Damn, I do as he wishes now.
This drone makes me furious. I can’t stop it. I can’t destroy it. I have to accept it. It’s my only companion. If I make it my enemy, I’ll be alone. I don’t want to be alone. No one wants to be alone. Too much time with yourself makes you consume it. Not the time. Yourself. Makes you consume yourself. You shallow it until its last cell and then you have nothing left. You ‘re left alone. Without yourself. Yourself is someone you can discuss sincerely with. You discuss about your life, argue about your choices, enjoy memories, reconsider, value, sometimes you encourage it, and sometimes you don’t. Until you exhaust it, you consume it. You’ve overanalysed everything. There’s nothing to argue or discuss about. You become two perfect strangers. And yourself just walks away. And you forget it. And then you wonder what the hell are you doing here alone. Who brought you here and why. It was it. It did it all. It and its stupid ambition. Now it is consumed and gone. And you ‘re left alone. This is why I’m telling you, let the drone lull you once in a while. Hear the sound, hear the words. You have nothing and no one left.
Επιτρέπεται η ηλεκτρονική αναδημοσίευση μόνο εφόσον αναδημοσιευτεί το πλήρες κείμενο, με ξεκάθαρη απόδοση στη συγγραφέα Ευλαμπία Τσιρέλη, μαζί με σύνδεσμο στην παρούσα σελίδα. Απαγορεύεται κάθε είδους έντυπη αναδημοσίευση. Σε αντίθετη περίπτωση, θα υπάρχουν κυρώσεις σύμφωνα με τον Νόμο 2121/1993.