Have you ever moved forward against your own accord? Have you ever felt a pull of unseen forces, or heard your name whispered to you in an empty room? Has déjà vu ever struck you, or the sensing of a person before they approached? Have you ever just let it, flow through you—time vanishing in a flick of the wrist; do you dream and lose your bearings, and yet somehow arrive at the correct end?
When I think of the word alien, I very rarely think of little green men, bizarre insectoid space creatures or UFOs. I also don’t tend to think of an outsider, a foreigner, or that associated with the uncommon. I don’t necessarily even think of the cosmos. When I think of alien, I simply think, not here.
That which is not here, that which comes from not here. Something that amounts to a shrug or ends in a quizzical brow pinch. What is alien is something beyond, and it is beyond the scope of my understanding, and certainly the reach of my arm. Denial of things that are alien is subjected to straw grasping, and explanation falls into shaky vagueness. People are wary of consciously entering the not here, because to enter into it, you must first and foremost, let go. And once you let go, you are nothing but adrift, with only an unconsciousness to guide you. It is this state of freefalling that leads to the unexpected collisions of things that have laid hidden, or dormant, for far too long.
Sometimes, to write, we must not think. We must simply be.
We must let the fingers do the thinking for us, and let loose the alien that perhaps is writhing within us. Reputation must be thrown out, spelling can be corrected later, and the dog known as aimless must be let off leash. Jumping first, asking questions later, and coming to the agreeable understanding with yourself and your surroundings that you:
Are not here.