An obsession gone awry
Generally I consider myself a somewhat reasonable person (in some cultures I’m sure), but ever so often I get torrid bursts of obsession that are devoid of any explanation. Once the obsession is attained, I then go to great lengths to maintain the illusion that the obsession was worth it. Several years ago, when I first moved to London, I rented an apartment that was possibly the inspiration behind Heathcliff’s character in Wuthering Heights.
Dark and mysterious (for no reason I’m sure but that it wasn’t really maintained by the previous tenants), it fascinated me. I was aware that perhaps the abode was not the most aesthetically pleasing, but I was convinced I was ‘meant’ to be there. Without giving it a second thought, I decided to take the apartment.
Like a broken down lover, I justified everything about it. Unidentifiable burns marked many parts of the carpet ( what passion, I reasoned). Strange scratchings could be found behind the ominous looking cupboards ( such mystery, I thought to myself). Moth eaten handkerchiefs made their presence known ( diversity….).
The floor would creak below my feet….
Now to be frank, none of this actually bothered, in fact I saw it all as rather ‘romantic’ and was swept away by an illusion that this was all very ‘exciting’. Such character, my crazed non reality accepting mind whispered to me.
The days progressed, and the volume of shawls I bought suddenly increased triple fold. My goodness, how many burns could one carpet have possibly sustained?! The dark green carpet (I know…) looked like it was the victim of a thousand mini-forest fires. Every burn was ‘hidden’ by a shawl. If I couldn’t see them, they weren’t there. Soon, it appeared as if I were the mistress of shawls. But I was more than a mistress. I was shawl woman.
A thought approached my mind, perhaps the decision to move here had been hastily done. Just as that thought arrived, it was savagely slashed away. Regrets are the whispers of the DEVIL, I softly chanted. Yes. And DEMONS. Alas, my denial was to such extends that this reasonable thought was as unwelcome as a gang of oiled and tattooed convicts gate crashing a baby shower.
But it’s only so long one can lie so effectively to oneself.The wool over my eyes was removed and I realised that I indeed was paying for the honor for living in a state of despair.
GOD! Why did I live so far away. So far from existence. It’s one thing when one lives in the suburbs as opposed to a thriving downtown, but what one earth is living in neither?! I felt so far from civilization….so primitive. Any second I felt National Geographic would arrive at my address and start photographing the ‘natives’…the natives being my good self and the moths.
It was useless. What was I doing here? Clearly I could not support this obsession any further.
Following this, I decided there was no point complaining. It was what it was. Best to just…accept and adapt. Since clearly I could not change the apartment, I had to change myself. I had to cultivate a character that would support living in shambles. Perhaps I could become an artist. Communist? Anything! Live ironically? Was it too late to become a philosopher?
So I started burning incense. Lots of incense. In silent hope the ‘aroma’ would distract me from the war ravaged appearance of my abode. I entertained trying to take up smoking. Maybe a smokey air about the apartment would lessen the sharp edges of the disaster I called home…
Alas, it was useless. All useless. But still the incense burnt, the shawls continued to grow and soon I realised that where I to suddenly ‘expire’, the police would have a mission trying to retrieve my corpse beneath all the shawls.
This all continued for another 2 months before I gave up the pretense! I gave some crazy sounding excuse to my landlord and fled the premises…
Sometimes I still hear them….
The end
commentarythatfillsmymind 
This is a perfect intro for me of your virtual stream of consciousness. When in New York, I often wondered who inhabited the many spaces I leased throughout the years. “If these walls could talk: Tenement Edition” kind of thing. My apartment in Harlem more than likely played host to the crack-cocaine denizens of the 80s and my place downtown must’ve been 1/3 of a family home with its awkward straw of a hallway which led one into the kitchen/living room. And you here across the pond with your moths and shawls. Well done.