The Attic

It feeds on us, culture. I know you think it feeds us, but it only seems that way. It gives only in order to take; weakening us day by day.

I found a way - a hidden space - an Anne Frank attic in my mind. But as the years pass it feels more like a prison. I would like to go out, but cannot risk it: I cannot be trusted to behave normally. It has been so long.

 

Neither can I let you in. My attic space has grown apart; unfettered by convention. It might horrify you – more likely you would find it unrecognisable.

 

In this manner, I have gradually become two people. The slow protective discipline, the mask taking on a life of its own in time.

 

From behind the mask I observe them: hollowed-out, grey and desiccated. There is no ferocity to them, nothing burns inside them. They have held nothing back. It has the feeling of a horror movie. You can shake them, but they will not wake.

 

I send myself little messages like these: notes pinned to a fridge in a house where two people live but never meet.

 

I have started leaving notes in public places. I have a wild plan for emancipation.

Image: Dragos Codre