The last couple of months consisted of not much more than random situations, one following another, deprived of anticipation, with nothing than my easily adapting self at hand. I like this indulgence. I’m have a great time.
It somehow disappoints me though, that I left so little behind. I seem to lose myself over and over. In all my temporary adaptations I tend to take each time a different guise, not one connected with some central entity – and if one then it’s maybe my couchsurfing profile, but then again, this is a temporary construct which is often changed according to the demands of concrete people. But when it comes to this question, “what do I leave behind?” I seem to dissipate in a plethora of incompatible fragments of answers. I did leave friends behind, loads of friends, and even more acquaintances. And a lot of them I hope to see back. Yet many more, without a doubt, did very little than heightening my expectations for others, the next other, and accordingly, my next self, and our next symbiosis.
This is the good life. A quest for people with ideals, a search for people with a voice, and rather people with a voice and a message. I'm enjoying the networks and exploiting them in every possible way. Meeting people from all over, fooling around, finding new ways of play and creating challenges to playfully unite us in nothing but a symbiotic dance, finding de culmination point where the other and I become more than just two.
In the meanwhile I write down my words. I describe in detail every situation worth mentioning, trying to capture the ultimate constituents of this life I’m leading. I wonder around with no clear purpose, being unemployed elsewhere than where I can find a job, being single elsewhere than where I can find the love of my life, being homeless elsewhere where I can start a home. I plainly wonder around. I wonder around in a world that doesn't speak my language, I wonder what they think, I wonder why they do what they do, I wonder which reasons they'd give. And I wonder how it would sound.
Yes, I like to think of myself as someone who's just wondering. I like to think of myself as wondering around, with at his side, waiving back and forth in his hand, a feathery light bag, filled with nothing but words. It’s like I’m always on my way back from shopping, as if I just acquired a new language to wave onto the world. Dutch, English, then French, now German. My person, he's steadily going forth – my words, they're gently being swung back and forth. And, “why?” you may ask. Well, I like wondering. And for my words, well: because they are mine. And moreover, because there's no one to prevent it. There's only me, me and my words.
That’s why my journey starts and ends in Europe. This is where words were fitted into systems. And this is where, finally, systems of words were fitted onto the world. I like to play with it. Turn things on their heads. That is what I do, I get back to those words it all started with, and play them around – beyond the systems that contain them, beyond the morals of the sheep – heading nowhere but here. No empty rhetoric of freedom, no blameful verdicts of imperial hegemony, no judgments of class privileges, no assumption of wants and needs: heading today towards the morals of tomorrow, the morals of the interdependent. And this is where I’d like to end. Just where I started. Random experiences, loosing myself and retrieving nothing but vague impressions of a lost self, on the search of some deeper, more profound connection, as a symbiotic dance.
