Absurdia.Net

So it goes.

Tag: home

Absent homes


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It’s weird to wake up everyday in a place where you don’t feel safe, at ease. In a place where your relations are not only strangers but enemies. Where you touch things that you should be owning and you perceive them as sly unknowns.
There was a time when home was a word with a meaning, even in my own vocabulary. When the word home aroused all sorts of familiar feelings, accompanied by reassuring images. Not that even in those days the feeling was frequent. But at least I could tell how it was to connect the idea with a factuality.
What’s home? I mean, really? I don’t see how some place has to be home just because you don’t know any better. Even with all the frustrations and disappointments. How can you constantly be disappointed in a place and still be able to call it home? Apparently it doesn’t take much for people to be contented, otherwise I wouldn’t know how to explain this constant putting up with exasperation. And how would you call home a place where your dignity, if you have some, is denied in every possible way? Getting mad for ten minutes every now and then isn’t enough to replace the dignity you keep on losing. Abulia and apathy aren’t necessarily arms in the hand of the strongest. They’re vicious maladies that gnaw at your brilliance, at your will to be and do.
A lot of talk I hear from everybody. They all have their neatly folded opinions about everything, even about what they do not know. If they do not have one, they can make some up or steal it from a TV show’s host or a magazine for bored housewives. But I reckon in their depths, where something valuable should be, where authentic home should be, there is nothing but this dull contentment, so they can go on another day.

And yes, I am truly as simplistic as a kid in my notions. That must be why I do not update often, ha!

I will be twelve forever


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Growing old means, among the other things, to acquire higher sense of responsibility and to be recognized by people around you as a reliable being able to take care of yourself. Wrong! It seems there’s somebody as myself that will never regarded as such by anybody, especially closer relations. Lost a father you immediately have another ready to replace him, and this new father is younger than yourself. Shame.
Taking a stroll these days has to be considered a dangerous activity which may cause people around you much stress and preoccupation regarding your safety. Who are you – I mean myself – to wake up and decide all by yourself, without consulting anybody, to leisurely walk for five kilometers, camera in hand? In rural districts, with all those reckless cars, no sidewalks, no civilization and all those life-threatening entities running amok? Who do you think¬† you are? Indeed, who do I think I am? I’ll be old enough for retirement before I know it and I will be still treated as a twelve-year-old unable to take care of herself. It’s not depressing, but it’s rather embarrassing. Maybe it’s not even that. It’s a mixed feeling that includes mortification and sense of guilt for I don’t even know what. It takes away all the pleasure of doing anything, knowing you’re going to make people around you paranoid for a nothing like that, for just walking around and wanting to take photos of cats. I really feel like an idiot, but I sense there’s something unfair in it. I should be free to do something so silly in a place I can call “home”, but according to the state of things, I mean all things considered, my only liberty is to go to the supermarket and kick the nearest rabid housewife for trying to steal beer from my trolley.