in pattaya airport a guy is handing out free iodine provided by someone, or something, while at the same time a group of rather drunken girls are popping the very same pills under the perigee moon. everything is as surreal as it gets, so surreal one has to think what is surreal anyway. maybe it could be that which is not our perception of real as it is most, or all, of the time, if I am allowed to speak about our perception with the terms provided by the field of compressed percepts.
my phone rings and the surreality hits a bit more harder when I hear my brother telling about a quake just experienced where I kinda grew up as “a sound of a car backing to the wall of the house.” 2.8 on the richter. what? how was I not “home” at the first ever possibility to feel an earthquake there?
to top things up, I later end up learning that an afro and drag inspired make up are hot in the eyes of a senegalese pusher but not in the eyes of a bald dwarf in a suit. damn. I guess the most natural thing would be to apply the all finnish approach and “blame the alcohol,” but I do want to give it up for the moon. I go for the surreal today, thank you.
but, to be honest, being conscious of one's escapism makes it less of a coping solution and more of a problem, or maybe I would rather say more of a question. if one were to stay still, it can only be pleasant if it means stillness of the mind but action of the body. or then it is just me who is made to run out into the dead grounds of inner city masses. I actually didn't see the moon because I was inside a shady lair of a bar with great ska all night until I had narrowed the span of my consciousness to the very immediate reality of trying to survive in wilderness with a poorly numbed cerebellum.
result? being a douche.
