Stupidsparkles.com The art of being a Middleman by Domitilla Corsini

I was born as a middle being.  Middle not as in average, rather as in the ‘connection’.

Allow me to explain, I was conceived before my parents could even say they loved each other.

I became the connection between them and later on my little brother.

I know this probably feels like I’m egocentrically going nowhere, but my story starts here.

It’s not easy to be a middleman, but I cannot function otherwise.

Some people go about their life without ever stepping into the middle of anything, without ever being the reason someone steps outside the middle of something.

 

In this precise instant I’m diving into the black hole (my mind). I’m the White Rabbit, blabbering nonsense to Alice (metaphorically you, the reader) about time.

If at this point of the page the ink is turning your head upside down, as the inappropriate use of grammar and structure is getting stuck in your throat, I’m yelling now: “stop reading!”

This is the Art of being a Middleman, the art of connection; you probably ain’t one.

Now that we have lost the superfluous being’s attention, I’ll explain to you, my ‘Alices’, the importance of connecting.

The art of being in the middle is the art of living in the real and surreal world, contemporarily.

Reality can only get you where the surreal starts, and that’s where I live I am a middleman, blending within the two.

Have you ever felt like your thoughts were too extreme, audacious, or wonderful to be expressed, so you only whispered them out loud?

I live a life: full.

Crowded with hateful, jealous, judging, regret-full, bitches.

At a point, that is not very distant from now, I was dangling at the edge of that crowded line too.

Since a very young age I felt connected to everything around me.

I feel the butterfly suffocating inside the room unable to escape the illusive freedom of the window. The complete acceptance of the supernatural realm, that persecutes me in what people call ‘reality’. I feel the tiny lungs of the butterfly pump faster, and fiction like a chapter of life that human beings try to ignore.

It is a combination of reality and imagination. By seeing, I can feel.

This may seem very cliché, but what I truly mean is that not everyone sees with the same intensity and details.

For this reason I usually get phrases like “ you are crazy” and “ you have a fervid imagination”, or – my favorite – “why are always so sad”; these to me are the typical derogatory attitudes of people who will never grasp the art of being a middleman.

If people stayed true to their essence rather then getting caught in the superficiality of the ‘real’, they too would see and understand why I am sad.

If certain human beings manage to be so loyal to the ‘existent’, then my question is why are you so scared of being sad?  

Isn’t sufferance amongst the main emotions characterizing the reality of the world we live in today?

Nonetheless, usually I try to explain that I am not sad, rather I’m angry. I might be in the middle of reality and the surreal, but feelings mark fixated boundaries, and sadness doesn’t suit me.

Rebellion.

This is because I thrive in the middle of the real and the surreal; two oppsing terms people try to etiquette things with.

I see both, I am both.

I was called crazy at festival one time, and this is actually a pretty fun story.

I was standing in the middle of a crowd dancing, and I caught in the midst of two mouths touching, the hand of the thief in a pocket further away.

From that instant on, I couldn’t help myself but notice all the hands in other people’s pockets.

I saw zombies walk towards me in bubbles of red smoke, knocking my friend’s pockets to check if there was anything valuable inside.

You probably got to this last sentence and thought:  “She is definitely crazy!”

Don’t be fast to judge, I am a writer after all, and our task is to engage.

As a matter of fact, the zombies where but people with too many drugs in their system, and the red smoke but a combination of red light effects and white vapor coming out of the pumps at the sides of the columns.

However, where my imagination stopped, realty kicked in. The thieves were real, and at the end of the night I got my wallet stolen from my backpack.

The real problem wasn’t the act in itself; the problem was that I had been accused of ‘imagining’, while I was the only one seeing.

Some people believe they live by "I trust what I see" policy, it bullshit.

To be aware and be comfortable with your real and surreal being is an art.

Everyone is connected to it, however many repress the right questions, blur of the details, trying to live in the comfortableness of reality.

I choose to SEE.

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