As a walking dead, my feet walk in the streets of Bangkok.
In every corner hides another ‘Iris’ that I was.
The Iris who was excited at the sight of every market, wishing that at the moment she noticed it, from the back seat of a taxi bike most likely, she was among its stalls.
The Iris who buys everything she wants to buy, usually in multiples, all costs are paid for the luxury of not needing to think too much.
The Iris who is constantly worried that she has to do something she isn’t doing in order to justify a current time devoted to making money.
The Iris who had two daughters at home waiting for her to return to them.
The Iris who with every inhalation and exhalation unintentionally pumped up the memory that is rooted in her consists of millions of pieces of information and premises who whispers all day long – “I am Iris, I am Iris”
The one who remembers these iris’s is proof of their continuous existence.
And she doesn’t know who or what she is.
The one she remembers?
The one who carries the memory?
The one who forgot?
All these separations are exhausting.
Feels as if I’m trapped inside a consciousness that knows nothing but to separate, to classify, to the extent that the ability to recognize itself as such stems from the same mechanism.
As if there is a short in an electric circuit commonly referred to as “existence” and “I”, is trapped in it
