i don’t know who left the fridge open

How do I put this?

I hon­est­ly don’t re­late to about  .  .  .  95% of how we de­scribe life to one an­oth­er.

I do see WHY we might cast our ideas in the forms of sto­ries or bro­mides or self-im­prove­ment for­mu­lae, to-do been­there­donethat lists or wit­ty, en­ter­tain­ing tales.

But I per­son­al­ly feel all this has next to noth­ing to do with the ac­tu­al real-time sen­tient ex­pe­ri­ence of liv­ing, which is cease­less­ly fas­ci­nat­ing to me – but, gen­er­al­ly, makes for lame­ass anec­dotes.

I’ll like­ly re­gret post­ing this but I do won­der if this res­onates with any­one at all.

Bot­tom line is: I’m not quite sure we ever talk about what be­ing alive is like at all.

Do dis­cuss, would ya? Ya know, DIS­QUS be­low  .  .  .  if you feel like it.

(bev­er­ages in the fridge. any­thing you might want. help your­self.)
 
 

—lau­ra hohlwein

Flom­mist Lau­ra Hohlwein is a con­tem­po­rary ab­stract sur­re­al­ist. Copy­right © 2018 Lau­ra Hohlwein. Pic­tured: Liv­ing quar­ters of the man who built Don Jus­tos Cathe­dral, Mejo­ra­da del Cam­po, Spain.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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