Prose: Inside Out – Part 2

I was on a new inside, looking in and out, in a different place but everything felt the same, intrinsically speaking. There were 13 of us (given or taken, including myself though I never thought as though I could I feel I belonged), and about 25 of them on any given or taken day.

On the outside, the normalcy of insanity was running its course through the veins of the centrally nervous systems of the city’s denizens, some suffering through this latent delight in spite or out of spite of themselves. The screaming, the flailing, the spitting, the biting; the overall accepted methods of problem solving, these rules of the jungle, these laws of nature – they were not accepted here.

I was on another inside. This time, I was the Ophelia taking heed to my crazy Hamlet’s proclamation, and he was still on the outside, evermore inside of me. There I was in this nunnery, uncommon to the one he thought fit for me, uncommon in our discrepancies, the atrocity of semantics. Then again, words were not necessary and for half a fortnight, they stayed inside, only to be scribbled on my new old notepad.

Outside I was losing and making friends and enemies and the time was ticking faster than it ever had before despite the fact that on this inside the time was moving slower and slower as each moment passed me by or ran alongside me. On the outside, another stranger was finding me fascinating, another voyeur hooked on my exhibitionist words, slung all over the wireless gateway, there for the vultures to drink.

Inside I thought I was crazy, outside they thought I was crazy.

Inside of me I thought I was normal, and the inside they thought I was normal.

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I realized after the third day that I was alone… the more people that I met and talked to or talked at or listened to or translated or scoffed at or laughed at or grimaced at or turned my eyes away from or translated or ignored or argued with or yelled at or misunderstood or cried to or spoke horrible Denglish with. There were people all over, inside, only allowed outside with given permission.

Inside the drugs came in the form of pills and were prescribed and doled out benevolently like candy. Outside the drugs came in the form of gas and liquid and crystals, shared for free with a precious price to pay, all solemnly sworn with the accompaniment of sugarcoated orchestras of unheard conversations drowned out by swimmingly sounding music that dissolved any reason to go inside or outside.

On the inside, the names on the clipboards were of the bottom caste, on the outside, the names on the clipboards were of the elite class.

On the inside, during the early morning hours, the company walked through sleepless nights up and down and back again through a dark solitary aisle – red eyed and weak kneed. On the outside, during the early morning hours, the company slept walked through the fork in the road of ambivalent euphoric slumber – eyes spread and legs open.

Outside I was a go-getter and and a jet-setter and a nomad who had found a million homes in the homes of the homely and homeward streets whose names I could not pronounce as I again and again arrived trying to start my dead life over again on arrival.

Inside I was an outsider, yet again, amongst a motley crew of disabled minds who were not strong enough to be outside, their fear harbored and anchored down by the fact that they just wanted to be German again, but this is Berlin and there is no place for anyone.

I left the inside, knowing full well, or at least scolded as such, that I was not German enough to be there, anywhere, everywhere, unless of course I could find an out to the in, and thus I had to begin all over again, feeling more or less crazy than when I came undone and came into…

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