LaNd Of eNtrAPmenT

Musings aside from serialized chapters of this book

I have become estranged from the world where I once squandered much of my time. It has been so long since anyone has heard from me that they might well assume I am dead. This doesn't trouble me in the least, for I am, in many ways, already dead to the world.

If, in my solitude, I can create something beautiful, I will have fulfilled my purpose on this earth. One of my dreams is to paint a twelve-by-fourteen-foot triptych and to publish this God forsaken book that delves into the depths of my sorrow. This book is a slow, winding project, weaving in and out of my life. Sometimes, I even doubt whether my life is interesting enough to document. I realize that my writing is often followed for superficial reasons, driven by base desires. My writing is an epiphenomenon. Yet, all I can hope for, and strive for, is to rise above mediocrity. If my solitude can lift me from this aching mediocrity, then I won’t feel completely useless.

It's as if I’ve wandered into the quiet corners of existence, where time stretches thin and memories blur. I linger in the interstices of reality, neither fully alive nor entirely departed. A part of me longs to honor the dead because I feel a kinship with them, especially those who have been forgotten. The dead who have no one left to speak of them, not even in contempt while lying in a casket. The homeless person who deserves a moment of recognition, or the solitary woman feeding pigeons three times a week with no living relatives.

Furthermore, I’d like to die with dignity. Not tomorrow or anything. Don’t worry about that. Don’t worry about me. Discussing death is often seen as distasteful, but it is inextricably bound to life. I want to embrace it, plan for it. Whether it unfolds as a tragedy or a comedy, I want it to be meaningful, not something lost in between. Perhaps comedy is better than tragedy. I’m uncertain if I appreciate the tragicomic; it feels too muddled, like the blank space between ascent and descent, the center of a helix shrugging. The strongest poetry, after all, flashes in the waxing and waning of the moon.

I don’t know what kind of burial I’ll have, but I do know I’ve often laughed at funerals and shivas. Burial ceremonies often seem like poorly composed verse—barely controlled antinomies, lacking a steady hand of authorship. Death can be burlesque, like a Jacobean city drama.

The truth is, we are born alone, and we die alone. Yet, in between, we strive not to live too alone. The statistics suggest that the surest ways to avoid "dying alone" are either to pass away prematurely or to have children. However, even these paths offer no guarantees.

I feel I could endure the thought of my body decomposing in a hovel for weeks, maybe even years, only to be discovered by a neighbor because I parked in the wrong place or because my stench finally gave me away, but maybe any exotic pets will have eaten me by then.

I could face the risk of abuse from caregivers in nursing homes or work myself to the bone, only to die in a plush flat or bungalow, a distraction from my loneliness.

I can no longer allow anyone to touch me or use me intimately. I am too fragile, and they would inevitably break me. I cannot bear to be told I am worthy of love, only to endure the whiplash of abandonment once more. I can't touch someone, feel their warmth, and then have that connection ripped away.

Every institution and entity I’ve encountered has abandoned and rejected me. All I possess are my pen and my body, wielded as weapons for my protection. Yet, it’s of little comfort. My writing is dismissed, never taken seriously, while my body is treated like a mere tool—a power drill to be used and then discarded.

If I don’t suppress my desires, they will be my undoing.

I can only retreat into isolation and wrap myself in hermetic solitude to escape the emptiness of loneliness. In my seclusion, I swim for kilometers on end and cook elaborate meals to savor alone.

Running was once my solace, but my joints are weary now. By the end of this year, I hope to find a new home in the water, where I feel a connection that knows me.

I fill the silence by making endless phone calls and playing sonatas softly in the background to stave off tinnitus. My plan is to swim at least four times a week, finding comfort and rhythm in the water.

You want to know the truth? I understand why people, especially the men I’m drawn to, lose interest. Initially, they’re intrigued by my appearance and captivated by my worldview, my actions, and my rootless existence. But soon, these very traits they once found exhilarating become coarse and charmless, and they pull away.

I’ve come to accept that men don’t fall in love the way women do. They fool around and, when the timing is right, choose someone suitable who happens to be there. I can no longer endure this. I know I will die alone, as everyone does, but I also choose to live alone. Despite this, I’ll still maintain a sense of vanity about my visage and mind.

I want to perish beautifully after all.

I will work hard, even if it means risking a life mired in poverty. Many of my creative pursuits may not be lucrative, but I’m at peace with that, despite my refined tastes and love for beautiful things. People often misinterpret this as gold-digging, but the truth is, I’ve had plenty of chances to "gold dig." Perhaps I’m foolish for not taking them, but I refuse to end up like my mother. I won’t settle or live a lie.

I adore taco trucks and leisurely driving around while sipping on an ice-cold coconut La Croix. In a dream encounter with a portly Slovenian Marxist, there was a shared understanding that an ice-cold beverage, the meta-Cola, represents the epitome of commodity. I’m a jeweled tortoise, leisurely meandering past discarded needles, lingering in the sweltering heat of a fentanyl-ridden environment, only to venture into the Amazon superstructure to procure cans of sparkling naturally essenced water.

Right now, I am in indescribable pain. My pelvis and shoulders ache, tormented by the presence of a nonviable life inside me, a nonlife that mocks me with gut-wrenching, agonizing pain. No man’s sweet talk or love bombing can reach me anymore. It’s not worth the risk; it would shatter me. And I wouldn’t die the way I want to.