‘For fucks sake get a life’ she yelled as he honks at her with violence. She can see the white in his eyes. She hadn’t planned to cross the line, but now that she accidentally did – she owns up to it. This is public space and she is definitely public. The time her luxury, the space her sanctuary and he just entered her church. She is it. A true pedestrian. 

When she finds the white role in her pocket feeling the heavy fabric in her palm she stops shaking. It unrolls with a ‘fffffflapp’ and sails to the ground in an instant assimilating with its environment. It’s official now. This time she redrew the line – not cross it. So we can all go back on the road. Together.

Ben H. is terrifying today’s business crowd with all tipping points in the red and curves so steep sliding us right into doom any minute.  7 out of 8 won’t make it they say. Will you be the one? When consequences get real? Too real. And so I keep watching the lovely man in a Hawaiian shirt with matching pants google ‘Christian perishes in walking distance’. Coping the shit out of things with all we’ve got while still working hard to save us all. 

orphaned before birth set the tone for a fractured respect done good in a system broken to societal interventions

If you choose to fail us, we will never forgive you.

State officials identified the suppression of hugs as a long term health hazard. Therefore various institutions issued instruction manuals for the creation of Hug-Airbags. In instances of running towards each other spreading arms, winglike ready to embrace, the hug airbag inflates allowing for a safe encounter.

?

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. 

A labyrinth of lines in cryptic plans, a secret language of its own. Tiny models, fake trees and people dependent on skilled minds to imagine walls overgrown by shrubs of rules and regulations. Seemingly impossible to overcome. And then 39 letters. Thirty-nine letters to help make all the difference — the start of a quest.

‘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.

15:43 – Jan 14. The shabby corner pub. The skinny pale lady in her 40ties is embarking on the challenge of eating a towering burger accompanied by a mountain of french fries – while the sharks yell into my ears “and the skinny people want what the fat people have”.

“Oh, that’s helpful – a leaflet”. Issued to sit in her seat pocket together with the safety instructions of the Boeing 757 bound to Monrovia, the capital of Liberia. Two “how-not-to-die-manuals”, both equally useful. 

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.

The compound is alive and lush with green growth. The building also seems to be breathing. Passing through the entrance feels like squeezing through an invisible membrane. Once through a great light filters in from the outside that seems almost brighter than natural, and you are overcome with a deep sense of calm. Electric vibrations begin to pass through your body, not as an explicit physical sensation but more as if having been plugged into a frequency that is emitting a deep energy into the pit of your belly. You take another deep breath, the surroundings exhale with you. A soothing voice from behind a reception terminal indicates for you and your companion to take a seat. One of the care staff will be with you shortly.  You can tell that your companion is tense, but looking at them you get the feeling that they are grateful for your presence, even if they haven’t been so explicit about it. Given the nature of the facility, it is easy to understand why it is so difficult to foster any pleasant feelings at all.

There would be marble sinks in the bathroom and brass coat hangers. The white painted staircases are slightly asymmetric while the handrails would be very soothing sliding down with your finger on their rim. There would be smooth oak countertops at the entrance. It would smell very new while your footsteps would echo through the generous spaces. The grey concrete walls and wooden details yell Scandinavian design at the top of their lungs. Another day another Chipperfield. If it wasn’t for the building permit…

Right in front of you behind your back. When Hollywood stars you knew just retired or died and the ones taking Oscars home were born in the late 90s. The time when the songs you love are called “Indie classics” on a Spotify playlist. A time when you give up on six-bed dorms and decide from now on its maximum 4 beds for adventures. There is this moment when you realise some years may have past. That’s ageing. Right in front of you behind your back.

What have you done in the past three to five days? Would you do the same if it was set to be your last? Or would you enter into the state of collective misery, tapping into new and forgotten sadness crying imaginary tears? Would you think about the people you loved and not kissed, the imaginary saliva not exchanged, the ones you haven’t married, the ones you left without a word? Or finally, dare to piss imaginary pee into an empty pool because nobody cares anymore? Would you walk your imaginary dog openly, shout “Otis” into the cauldron of the world and give him an imaginary pot of water? Three to five – not much you think. With water gone – Three to five is precisely what you get.

Musa winced. She did not mean to be in charge. It was so much easier when all she had to think of is reproduction and growth. Very few choices. That’s what they told, that’s what they taught. Growing importance was never her thing. Till today.