By Damien Dunigan
May 24, 2012
It's morning, yet I'm reminiscent of the somber haze of sleep. The scent of industrial sanitizer and stale air float old ideas on new thoughts.
It's not warm but it's not cold either. It feels only of a surrounding emptiness.
The colors are perplexing and present the oddest of paradoxes, a sight of clean tranquil serenity in an otherwise dirty and confused place.
I've been here only one day, but it feels like so, so much longer. The dichotomy of feeling comfortable in a foreign place.
I can hear thoughts, ides, words, sentences, whole conversations though none of them are mine. And as much as I strain to make sense of them, they remain muffled. As if they were under water. Or maybe it's I who's submerged. I can't tell, but the sounds remain constant, ever-present, so ubiquitous I now need them for the backdrop to my own thoughts.
I see daily hundreds of bodies, thousands of faces and a million attitudes simultaneously. All of them in motion, yet none of them going anywhere.
I stand here trying to find where I fit in, but I can't, because I don't, yet I can't picture myself anywhere else.
So; I'm left here, in the place I've just arrived, yet been already too long. Immersed in a new world, fallen in a hole, tantamount to Alice though there's no treasure [Cheshire] cat, no Mad Hatter, no tea time.
There's a bittersweet taste in my mouth, but I can't place it; I think it's freedom, but I'm not sure 'cause I've never had it before.