It has now turned into a necessity. My fingers are moving on their own. My head is stationary, the gaze focused on the screen. The wind just moved my bedroom door. The bottle of water on the desk wobbles due to my tapping on the keyboard. I do not know exactly what is happening. What is happening to me. Continuing this process is feeding the thing that possesses me. As soon as the words in my head run out and my fingers stop writing I feel that it starts to writhe, to contort myself. Outside the bells have just begun to ring. These ... let’s call them environmental events are the only thing that reminds me that I am alive. Which binds me to the concrete world. Now that I think about it, there is actually another thing that makes him stop suffering. That makes the parasitic demon spirit that lives inside my skin feel good. Video games, music, cinema, art, watching others live, details. In some ways, it is a problem because I would like to be more productive, to have more control. I don’t deny that letting him control is pleasing me. The precariousness and irrationality of this situation, the visceral and detached tone at the same time. I also feel the well-being of leaving it free for a moment in a large, seemingly infinite space. The feeling is that of a dog running outdoors, the sense of abstract is what makes it unique. Calling him back to order is not a path I want to take. I don’t want it to end.
The self of art.
