Saliva starts to form a big gulp in your throat. Thick lines flickering in front of your eyes. Pupils are following the white and dark spaces formulating comprehension. Like a perfect rhythm hammering inside of your forehead, the combination of space and line start creating sense in the cracks of your temporal lobes. Words are passing through the body like rain sinking into the sun-dried soil. Unfolding sensations keep dripping onto surface. Your wrist starts hurting, ink running low, sweat down forehead while the words start pouring out of every corner like rats leaving a sinking ship. Maddening capriciousness. 

‘In outer space, you develop an instant global consciousness, a people orientation, an intense dissatisfaction with the state of the world and a compulsion to do something about it. From out there on the moon, International politics look so petty. You want to grab a politician by the scruff of the neck and drag him a quarter of a million miles out and say, “ LOOK AT THAT, YOU SON OF A BITCH”.’ Astronaut Edgar Mitchell famously stated.

Sounds fair – we thought. And did it.

On this Wednesday in the darkness of Nordic winters, the small green kiosk at Mosebacke is defying the ice-cold winds. From a safe distance, you see a red glow decent from shaded windows and the cracks in the dark green building. Candles and Cats with golden pows appear on the cold metal bar arrangement. “Maybe Chinese food” the lady mumbles and tightens her scarf struggling onward against the storm missing out on the opportunity of her lifetime.

Enough of “No you can’t,” or “You shouldn’t” and  “maybe tomorrow.” Seriously? Of people saying “Maybe that’s good enough” leaving potential on the doorstep to die alone. Seriously?! I was done with “it’s ok” – this evil mistress of indifference. Sometimes anything is better than nothing. Seriously! Anything to ease the pain, to get started, even to be wrong that can be rightened – anything really. Doesn’t have to be real. Maybe just fake it – nobody will notice. Seriously.

“Who are you today?” The space blanket is sizzling, distorting the mirrored surfaces of its surrounding. “Name, Surname, Desired Occupation”. It’s simple really.

I looked up from my desk as an old wrinkled hand passes on an order form. She is famous, they say. Big career in fashion, Paris, New York. Her ‘Desired Occupation: Baker’. After pick up she slowly takes some steps towards the door looking down at the small paper square in her hand. “If I had the guts to start all over – this would be it” she whispers.