where the iRobot can’t reach (- 12)

There’s a few hundred thoughts passing by in my head, just like old, outdated cars on a country road trying to avoid long forgotten holes in the pavement. They’re driven by no one, going towards nowhere. Slowing down when they get in front of me and right before disappearing, I notice some details from the interior ( – and I remembered the word “etamine”, I know it’s some kind of fabric but this isn’t what I had in mind; anyway, I’m letting the word come through, as it would be silly to not write it down, since it appeared so crisp just a moment ago). And some of these cars’ interiors are detailed paintings of eastern european rugs, crucified on walls above a bed where people made love, back in the day.

I wonder if this is normal; if I am acting normal or I am acting unnatural around you; but I mean, we constantly change. we adapt to our environment, to the people around us, we evolve, we develop, we transform. We change our cells. We change ourselves.

And I wonder if this is right, if what I’m living is my truth or the real me, because I feel like I have secrets. By changing the way I step forward or backwards when I’m in your presence, in your present time (or the lack of it, for that matter, when you’re in your head and I’m tip toeing) there are things I haven’t told you; so I don’t feel transparent.

I like being transparent. It is perhaps my only wish. To become transparent. There are things I want to ask you but I’m afraid of doing it. There are things I didn’t tell you but I know there are things you did not show me. And they still are part of us. These are the dark corners of our living room, where the iRobot can’t reach.

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