Shallow breath, exhale
I worry about the strangers in the underground, their faces close to mine, fighting to keep the balance in the romantic embrace, sharing the common air, the common ground, the miserable reality of the seven a.m. of the tuesday morning in the rainy city of London.
I worry about the unconvincing image of the world I live in, floating in the mother Earth’s veins, the tube canals, like rats, sweaty.
Life is beautiful, I feel somewhere deep in my unconscious, deep in my London fume penetrated brain, deep in my skinny bottocks willing to run run, sat in my office, my office job, my well paid, my freedom, my nine to five, my creativity death and reborn, my little bird cage, my bills and my travels and my expenses and my tube.
ORGANIC organic ORGANIC
I worry about the cancer cells and about the fume expansions, water bills, regularity of periods, periods of the happiness and sadness, the anxiety periods, and periods of rain and droughts. About the food that goes off, about children in Africa and my children, unborn, nonexistent, about homeless dogs and pregnant woman in the tube, I worry about the crowd on the Piccadilly Circus,
I want to make the Picadilly Circus meditate. I want to tell everybody there to stop running and stop taking the bad quality photos and stop moving and I want to tell them all to stand there, their muscles frozen. I want to take my big red megaphone and from the depths of my heart say
You need to go home. You need to go home and make a cup of hot tea, and lie down in your warm bed. This is the supreme state of a mankind. Thank you. You can go now.
And so they go, because they know I talk to them from the true depths of my heart, the cardiovascular depths, from the tired, soft, pulsating organ, and so they leave the number one London tourist destination, covered in pidgeon excrements and paper bags with Costa logos, empty plastic coffee cups with names forever spelled wrong.
London would have impressed me deeply if I haven’t lost all my sensors in it’s crazy paced everyday run. That everyday life perversion I grew throughout my two years of flying around, mocking around, running away from something I can’t quite name, has turned into a real monster. Nobody has told me that the life down here is nothing but a washing machine, going round and round, morning, lunch break, going home, going to bed, morning, lunch break, going home, going to bed,
Tiring as fuck
I am sitting here, swinging my legs back and forward, drawing little cats on the sticky notes, answering the calls with that serious note of mine, smiling like oh, how I love this life, OMG, IM LIVING DA DREAM B’TCH and sometimes I do it so well I believe it, too. On the days when the rain is not pouring on the chunky, black British ground, shiny black cabs, I like to lie on the bench in the park. The planes are forcing it’s way through the big, white clouds, looking dreamy, like some ugly little birds
Shallow breath I close my eyes,
it’s oh, so peaceful