Another Outpost

Another fucking stop, another chance to wait for nothing. I used to love waiting for nothing. Here, wherever this is, it's unbearable, I guess it's because I don't have any of my stuff around. That would usually distract me from the unbearableness of un-Motion. I've got to stop this, I'm taking too long to get to where I'm going, but I can't resist an offer, what can I do, I get scared, the dark clouds in the sky are threatening, they loom over you everywhere as if saying "Seek shelter, Parasite!!", and by a miracle I'm able to parasite once more. Yet when I wake the foreign day in a next room, I feel empty, confused, as if I was sedated in the night and they switched my turtle shell with another's. And then a familiar feeling: lazyness, fear to face the day. Well if I'm in a box it's normal that I don't want to get extricated from it, no baby wants to be born. My hunger has to force me up and then I'm faced with a strange kitchen with all sorts of things. Too much choice, like picking out toothpaste at a supermarket. If there weren't prices of products to guide me into choosing simply the cheapest I would stay paralyzed there all day. • Not raining, might rain, if I liked rainy days at "home" because they gave me a definite excuse not to leave the house, here, in "not-my-home", and outside "not-my-land" there is only a Void. (Even my body makes noises, to signal its indisposition; when I'm in the wild, without any conveniences it don't complain). So I sit on the balcony, in limbo, coffee, book and pen, what else would you need, when being a Denizen of the Abyss? Maybe it'll clear up, my mind too, maybe. I'm still young, they say. I'm not yet at the border of der Schlussstein zum Menschen.