Some free-form, stream-of-though writing from last night...
My hands have sacrificed aplenty. My body has given though not received. The way nature lets us focus on one thing but not the other never seizes to perplex me. I’ll look at a movie screen but only a square foot is in the high-def I’m supposed to be watching, the rest a biologic blur due to how my eye chooses to function. I’ve always thought it funny that videocameras do the same thing – focus differently I mean.
I take my time focusing on things that are irrelevant to my functioning. Like how, for example, as I write this and stare at my computer screen, everything behind it is doubled up by my eyesight. When I was little I always thought there was two of everything, that one thing just hides behind the other whenever you try and see them clearly.
You know that little voice in your head? That little voice that, even if you muzzle it, will whirr in your ear over and over and over until you start to listen to it and it will un-gibberish itself and then you understand how fucked up your are inside? My mind likes risks. And hates them. I don’t know if it is my mind or just that voice. When I’m out late at night, coming home from dance class when it has already gotten dark and the people on the streets have shifted from day-people to night-people and the night-people aren’t exactly the kind of people you feel comfortable around. I fear night-people. Especially the intoxicated night-people with that empty look in their eyes and that hungry tremor at their lips that just says more more more.
The town smells different at night. It looks different at night. It feels different at night. It breathes at night as though the town itself were intoxicated. I always hold my breath when walking past what people call modern gypsies selling roses in front of the main entrance to the train station. There is always the same man playing a harmonica. I hear it through my headphones, always.
The evil comes out at night. I thought it was just a fairy-tale evil when I was younger, that there’s no such thing. But it’s really there. People transform at night. I transform at night. When I’m out. The voice in my head will say that whatever would happen to me, I’d deserve it. That I need that reality check — that I need eyes glued to my legs and lips drawling out words about how they’d like to take me home. That I need something to shake me out of my naivety.
The after-nine Helsinki smells like cigarettes and grease and cheap perfume and ketchup and diesel and sometimes it smells sweeter, sticky. And quite often it makes my mind dark. It makes that little creature come alive in my head that wants to be in danger. And in my head I wonder if this is what everyone feels, if that creature is why everyone is out in their night-mode, drunken.