Regeneration

I walk the path of a warrior and settle on enemy ground. Take on their color, logic and language. Dance with their daughters. Make notes in the dark. Daylight comes early and breathes life into the apartment. The sun casts a nostalgic glow on the books as they stand row upon row upon row. The harddrive hums attentively, hosting a fresh batch of downloads. Sleeping in the apartment is like crashing in an airport holding room. Ghosts of globalization drifting in and out.

I wake to the sound of thunder as the DINKIES upstairs throw their morning fit. The one advantage to freelancing is that it strips life to its core disciplines, my morning ritual now burned into my physiology. It is as though I am released into the day from a deep stage of hypnosis, my subconscious mind fully functional as my conscious mind still searches for a point of recognition.

Then a world shifts into focus, starting with the polder stretching out at the base of the apartment-complex. On the horizon, a city sprawls like coagulated dreams, providing me with a sense of location and a timeline. Slowly my body separates itself from the oneness. Beneath my gaze, an identity assembles itself, taking clues from my environment. Man. Mediator. Mission. But certain connections have been broken, neural pathways rewired to feed back the obvious.

Every day starts with a decision. Usually when I stand in front of the wardrobe, but today I suffer from option paralysis. It could be random but feels more like pathology. I have no choice but to go back. Ask why.