Becoming a window. Day 1033 in the life of a Dee

Art notes from an empath rob. Bot is not woke enough.

Dee tells the world, she has a brain condition when it's her heart that has serious malfunctions, often. 

She takes all things to heart; insignificant and consequential alike. No filters. That's the job of her kidneys. Stacked up wholesomely in the coffin apartments of her Old Delhi conscious and Hongkong subconscious ghettos of her tiny muscular organ with a stench that beats the gritty Bombay odour. 

It usually comes with her looking out of her 6 inch window. It's a hole but she relentlessly insists otherwise. Not out of habit or hobby - but as she will belatedly realise, as an eventuality. Her mom, siblings often catch her looking outside but she swiftly denies. Her kin is remote and she has no friends. She doesn't indulge in others. And it's always - either a pen that has rolled away, or a curious pigeon. Something to do with objects, feelings, any things starting with P. 

"Will you ever be original? Pause. Maybe another time?" Her mother's floating commemorative tank asks a tough one but is supplemented with a soft, calculative, considerate prompt from the assistance bot. Mothers are savages and their avatars always have to work harder. 

Someone who knows what Dee's condition is, from Dee universe watchers, probably one of those empath owners; left her a note with great conviction that it is urban modern despair. I wanted to access that note to psychoanalyze the analyser but Dee isn't very keen to share. The note, so I believe said "you aren't alone." Who else has this? Is there really a collective of accidental holes petitioning to be windows?

Have you noticed how dull breakfasts are a staple of those suffering. Bablu, the neighbour's son always eat kachoris first thing in the day in North Indian edition, Vadai in S-Indian edition, waffles in North American and European editions, Samboosa in Middle East versions, Empanadas in LATAM, Gyozas in Asian editions and I don't think there was an African edition ever. Anyway, I think the neighbour's son will never be bullied, he has that fried dough confidence. Carbs at 8am is directly proportional to fire in one's gut. 

Dee on the other hand ate 2 table spoons of pounded nuts and milk and half a sapota and her dull day begins. SA-PO-TA I love how this fruit choreographs our mouth. SA PO TA. Manilkara zapota, Sapodilla sapote, Chicozapote, Chicle, Naseberry, or Nispero, long live the cheeko.

And the newscasts are all AGI controlled, so she doesn't comply. Reminiscing about news back in the good old days, brimming with genocide of morality, celebratory of nuclear tests, petty wars, taming dragons, lottery wins, uncouth tongues, beauty pageants, glib talking working class murderers. When our days were ruptured by such banal severities.

Ever since all that ended, she can’t watch TV so she doesn't own it. It was such a miss and a hit. She died a million times in those days, just by watching TV news. An artery taking blood to her heart used to balloon up, bursting with force of a fallen water reservoir and yet somehow she could never look away preferring death. But those days are behind her, the new world order has very sanitised news, smelling of hospice peroxide in shades of scrubs. 

A pink throated twinspot on the awning outside her "window" is "humming". Lots of gibberish. The bird being watched looks right through the window and through Dee. Dee is startled by the tiny little polka dot's gaze. She draws the curtains and ignores the mating call sitting in the dark, kneeled under labyrinths of anxiety. The bird stops her fake mating calls and pecks at its own image. Is that little guava-face masturbating? Dee can't help but chuckle, remains hidden out of embarrassment.  


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