escritos one

I am starting to digitize the writings I did in the midst of a low low depression when I lived in Barcelona the first time (2001-2002). I wrote most of these when I was sick with insomnia in the fall of 2001. Honestly I don't remember the order of the pages. I am currently just typing what I wrote page by page and correcting the typos that I see. Who knows where this will lead...

I heard voices again. They were muffled. I got up and went to bed. And there I was in the middle of it again. Surrounded by it. No way out really, just in. I looked for the door, and do you know what I found? A window. A damn window, so that I can see it, so it can tempt me. I didn't go to the window - way too easy. So I stayed there, in the middle. I was sitting on the floor, indian-style, in the middle. I looked at the window. I looked at the window.. I looked through the window, and do you know what I saw? A door. That's right! A goddamn door! Then I didn't know what the hell to do. I was still in the middle, of course, holding my ground. And they put a damn door just in my sight, through the window, of all places. So what was I supposed to do? Jump through the window to the door? From where I was, I couldn't even see if there was any ground! So, I stayed where I was, sitting, in the middle of it all. Even though I was in the middle of it all, I could see the window and the door ever so clearly through the window. I door knob was shiny brass. It looked brand new, but the door was very old. The door. The kept talking. I wasn't listening. I was only hearing, if even that. I was there. They kept arguing. They kept discussing. I should have been listening. I should have been there, but I wasn't. I was only in the middle of it all. I was staring at the door. I was mesmerized by the door. It was the door that held my attention. In my mind I was already there. I was already at the door. I was opening the door. My hand was grasping the shiny brass handle. I was opening the door. Or so I imagined. In my mind I was away from it all. The middle, I had left and I was outside. Through the window and at the door. I was so preoccupied. I was too distracted. My concentration kept slipping. The conversation kept changing and I was too slow to keep up. My reactions weren't quick enough. I wasn't, I didn't understand what was going on. My head drifted. I found myself floundering. I was trying to keep my head above the water. I was trying to hold my head in place. It floated. I was sinking. The air was thin up there and there wasn't any air to breathe underneath. I tried to find a rock, but they were all taken. The frogs were belching. The frogs were sitting on the rocks that I wanted. On the rocks that I needed. The frogs with their sounds. Those were the only sounds I could hear anymore. And the only things I could see were the rocks, the shiny glistening rocks where the frogs sat. Where they perched themselves to catch the best catch, to feed themselves. To feed their hunger. To eat their lunch. To keep from starving., from starving themselves to death. To keep from letting themselves go. To keep from letting it all slip away. To keep it afloat. To keep from drowning. To keep from dehydrating. To stay alive. To feel alive is what I thought. If I felt alive, then I was, I must be, for otherwise why would I have this feeling? And feeling must always be the way things are, for if they were any other way, then that would be false. That's the heart of the matter, really: the falsification of facts. Facts that are indisputable, undisputed, incontestable, unable to be denied. Facts are facts and that is that, or so you think. And thinking is what got me into this mess in the first place. Because thinking with contest the in contestable and thinking makes fiction into facts fiction., which might not be so bad if you thought about it, but then that brings you right back to where you were to begin with.