THE FEAR OF EXISTING
By Soti Griva
They teach you as soon as preschool that you are not allowed to exist. They park you in creative work-spaces without any creation or play. Later on they teach you creative writing and you forget your own writing, register, image, voice and impression of life. And, exiled from yourself, all you constantly seek is to possess something or someone in order to camouflage your nonexistence. So that it is not obvious that you do not exist under the «clothes» of the alleged knowledge they dressed you in. You wither slowly from lack of oxygen (breath of life) and learn to live in the void struggling to fill it with survival. You do and redo the same over and over and that repetition instead of lulling you complacently to sleep unfolds the vertigo of lack. The main signifier, psychoanalytically, is now the warm bosom of the Oedipus complex that does not free desire but re-registers it as lack! And then treatment coincides with the trajectory of sickness. This crazy vicious cycle has now become the overused castration. Not even the lacanic object small a can make you desire because it is just another ghost wandering the psychoanalytical horizon not as an object-cause of desire, but as an object of pleasure. When you chase it, without knowing what you’re chasing, and you run and run, it is not a flow of desire but a driving pleasure machine. All these pyrotechnics along with the spirits of the objects (small a-partial objects of drive) to which entire generations of psychoanalysts were sacrificed remind me of the small statuettes of deities and the fenced sects of faithful who serve them. They feed symptom with symptom and now the body shows a variety of symptoms which were not there before. It reproduces the errors and symptoms it was charged to carry with moral inertia until death. The voices enter the ear that has no way of blocking sound and you go running to the doctor to have him unclog it. The ear is raped and you do not care.
You just listen and fantasize…
A little prick of anxiety like the bite of a mosquito (“Oh, I’m stressed…”) wakes you up once in a while and afterwards comes the weight on the chest and you rush to put out fire with fire. You drop a tombstone on the heart, you grow harder and heavier. You do not have what it takes to stand on your own feet and walk. Then neither hands nor legs exist anymore. They are numbed and paralyzed and a hand/vise presses on the back of the neck and squeezes down the lower nape. The next step towards escaping is putting on your sunglasses in the heart of winter so that everything seems like a movie through your spectacles. As you watch even the slightest menacing detail from afar, through the glasses, the windows, your computer screen, you realize in horror that despite your precautions you do not exist.
You are everywhere and nowhere but… you do not exist.
Translation by Christos Agrafiotis, Photo by Spyros Markatis