Some random mornings I wake up with a dull but terrified feeling of being trapped. The only way I can describe this feeling is that the week (as in Monday through Sunday) is asphyxiating me, slowly killing me. It is this unescapable, ever-repeating boundary. The week starts, then ends, then starts again. And it is the same with the day, the same 24 hours…
I know the perception is a sort of illusion, a trick of the mind’s eye, where I impose the wrong conception on time. But in the moment, I start to panic about mortality and death and meaninglessness.
7 borders build this prison
In a cold universe without order
We built a shelter around ourselves
And forgot the door!
We built infinite attractions and novelties
But there remains nothing new beneath our roof
The same clay we use to build the first moment,
Has been recycled endlessly
All the joys and tragedies,
Are built of one matter
Sometimes, we see the old within the new
The reincarnation of each moment
A feeling, I can’t tell whether
clarity or delusion
insight or neuroticism
Recently, I’ve been changing the face of this experience. Through experiences like reading Fernando Pessoa (who seems to have seen existence in much the same way), meditation work I learned from Ido, as well as returning back to the process of writing vigorously, I’ve begun to see these moments as less terrifying. When these specific feelings are part of the morning, I see them a bit differently, more like a passing impression. It doesn’t make the impression more or less accurate; I simply feel I don’t have to pretend it doesn’t exist to overcome the worst part of the experience.