How is it, that an object can always seem to belong in a place, simply because it has always been there? The object, is blankly voided, thoroughly synthesised in and of itself, a segment of continuous collective reality.
Suddenly though, awareness can shift, like the cognitive rumblings of a pulp fiction detective, in his "AHA" 'Eureka' moment, where the pieces all fall into place, and he immidiately sees.
The object is abruptly thrown into the spotlight, a harsh discordant note amongst the noted harmony, and suddenly, the object is a "Cat amongst the pigeons" it does not belong there anymore.
Nothing has obviously changed, the object has not been moved, the objects around it, have not moved, but the knowledge of the thing, has changed, the conceptual lighting of it, the perception has changed and therefore everything has profoundly been altered.
This house has been our home as a couple for nine years. In weeks, I leave, when it will becomes his house and I will have my own apartment in a more genial elsewhere.
This is the displacement I feel living here, in a suburban religious habitat which was once benevolently cordial. Even in this very house the inversion has commenced, what was once seemly is simply unsettling now .
Things feel different, irrevocably. There is this pervasive sense, scent, of dislocation, of waiting... a shifting normalcy.
The impact of my personal disclosure violently jarred everybody's sense of that center beam of a balanced normalcy. It shifted friendships vastly, separating wheat from chaff most definitively. It also set collective reality teetering into an eternal percussive disquiet.
Ears are still ringing from the blow, and the community is not amused.
I need to move on, like raindrops skittering frantically along the glass windows of a car in motion, the trajectory is already in an alternate elsewhere... on the way home.
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