Fictional Me - 1. The Subtle Psychology of Foreign Things

This is my first attempt at publishing something I wrote in english. There may be some stupid mistakes and stuff. Any feedback is much welcome

Seven days into the new house I’ve found out I did not speak the local language perfectly at all.

Of course I had to go and believe that shining website that told me with capital letters I would learn a new language in thirty days by downloading an app. Moving into another country looked easier on other people’s social network profiles.

The current result of my adventure – a sabbatical semester spent the farthest away from home I ever been – could be summarized by the list sitting on the desk right in front of me:

a) A use of the local language that worked like a grandfather clock people forgot to wind a long time ago – only got things right twice a day.

b ) No friends to complain about the weather, the strangeness of the food and the downstairs neighbor singing voice.

c) No ability to make new friends without embarrassing myself.

d) A generous amount of hatred towards the language learning app and myself – not necessarily in that order.

And that was why I started talking to myself on a mix of my mother tongue and the one I should have learned properly before I came here. It was just easier then remaining silent all day. Then I started talking to everything: the table, the chairs, the curtains and even the stray cat that would land on my window from time to time. I named him Bob.

Five months and a half to go and it started to get better when things began talking back to me. The fridge would respond to my comments about the weather joking I should squeeze myself inside her. The table was a Foulcault fan and would elaborate on complicated things about Life and Society that made little sense to me. I indulged her anyway, because she was made of cedar and I had a thing for raw wooden furniture. I would lay on the armchair in the living room and have soothing conversations with its headrest. He always knew what to say to make me feel better. Bob, the cat, never talked back to me. I suspect it was because he wasn’t a Thing.

The Things had a peculiar way of seeing life – probably because they were not quite alive themselves. I also began to wonder if being foreign helped them seeing the world so differently from me. It was quite a learning experience.

As I got farther on our conversations, I may have forgotten mundane things like eating or using the internet, but it felt fine not having to deal with boring stuff from life.

Then the Things started showing me places I’ve never been.

“Do you know where all lost Things go?” asked me the Coat Hanger when I was talking about not knowing what to do with life. I just had told him I was quite lost myself and had no idea what I was going to do back home after my sabbatical semester.

“Can you show me?” I asked in return, and a slight sensation fluttered down my stomach. I believed could either be hope or hunger. Maybe a mixture of both.

Hanger took me through the familiar corridor out of the living room, limping on its small legs. As we walked further the carpet seemed to change its color and I was quite sure there was no wallpaper on the walls before. I was sure I was stepping on a place only Things knew about.

“Look around and see for yourself” he told me and I did so.

Broken objects cluttered the path further ahead. It seemed to have no end. Inkless pens, stained mattresses, bicycles with no wheels and a host of obsolete Things moved sadly and whined on their lost state.

Clothes Hanger knocked me slightly on the head and brought my attention to him.

“You’re going to be as good as them if you don’t stop whining and do something with this miserable life of yours.” he censored me.

“Hey I’m trying here” I managed a poor attempt of defending my ongoing flight from reality. “I’m searching” I gestured to the Lost Things corridor as if it counted as an attempt to find meaning to my existence.

“You being here is the farthest you’ve ever been from reality. And from yourself. You think you’re the first human to ever step foot in this place?”

“Am I not?”

Clothes Hanger laughed heartily and it sounded like a fork scrapping a chalkboard.

“Walk to the end of this corridor and see for yourself” he prompted between amused gasps, and me feet started moving without a conscious command from my mind.

It could have been days, hours or just a fraction of a second of running between broken things to get to the end of that corridor. There I found a closed door.

“So, are you the next one?” asked the Doorknob. I ignored him.

I opened the door and found a sculpture. A lifeless form of a person turned thing, stuck on the back side of the Corridor of Lost Things. Was that what awaited me after all? I stared, shocked, but then I remembered I had Headrest. If I just managed to get back to my living room, he would say wise and soothing things and all my troubles would go away.

I just had to find my way back. Where was that door again?