I am in the process of striving to get attached to displacement. I have no choice! Moorings and anchors have eluded me all along and I feel tethered to storms.
The morning was quiet. Waves lapping over the shores of thought, I started moving my pen on a scratch pad. I decided to give two minutes to each because the first took this much time. By removing myself from various aspects, one feels quite complete. Whether it is a bust from its pedestal or disembodied selves that can be anyone and belong to anything or just reflections that may appear similar but just a slight change in expression – ever so slight – can alter how one feels.
Feels? Displaced? Yes. Displacement is an emotion, a state of mind. It is realisation, even if it is of conflicts within. The moment the pen drops, it does not cease to be a pen, nor does it stop being my pen. But, the realisation is there that it can be anyone’s. Its existence does not depend on me or mine on it. We are not enmeshed. Togetherness is incandescent.
You can take my pen and even my drawings, but my thoughts? They are ghosts now because it is not morning anymore.