Author: A metaphysical entity (Page 22 of 33)

Where I come from, people wear socks in sandals.

Where I come from, people choose to nod instead of saying hi.

Where I come from, you are welcome.

Back in the streets, we walk with beverages in our hands, just because we can. Freedom is taken wherever it seems to be within the rules of the law. Underestimated, yet appreciated by the connoisseur of culture. Bringing stability, but only to those who would like to have it. Disregarding the ones draining energy. Loving, caring and sacrificing for the ones who entered the realm of the inner circle. Spoken about but rarely spoken to.

Where I am from, small buns trump toast.

I am here, standing in my sandals. I have embraced the comfort of socks, the support of sandals. They start like a rock and become something you don’t want to live without, fitted to your life.

I am a sandal. Will you wear me?

Please wear a sock.

Time flies when you’re having a good time.

He’s been looking at the canvas, the canvas conveniently ignored him. But what if the image is already there? It’s just a matter of effort and time. So I am sitting, waiting. For the canvas and for him.

It’s weird that we hang up pictures. Someone has produced them and we like it. When thinking about the wide array of emotions this picture triggers, I become too lazy to write. So I am sitting here, looking at a square coming to life.

Maybe it is the sunshine burning my brain cells, but I cannot help but realise that I might be a canvas, too. I am painting myself, being painted on. I am hung up, watched, marvelled about, hung down. At some point, I will probably be trashed. How long will I be up there? Will I ever be finished?

Am I Square?

And if yes, can you please paint on me?

Attributed, not confirmed.

Walking, sitting and waiting. Laughing about yourself. Influenced by the environment, saved by it, deformed by it. Why is a breeze refreshing one day and terribly inconvenient the next?

Struggling with a basic task, you question your own capabilities. Then you laugh because you remember, it is alcohol-induced. The ramblings of last night come up like burps.

“Idiotic, at best.”, you say to yourself. The coffee is mocking you, it only accelerates rushes of last nights consequences in your body. Truly, you remain, idiotic.

Taking it easy, lightness comes over you. Finding comfort in the realisation that you will be idiotic, again. So there’s only one solution, you think. Put on the sunglasses, hope there will be some sun. Press play on that button. But rest assured, you will be, once more, idiotic. I will be there to assist, equally idiotic, equally comforting in the very thought that we will repeat this.

The ladder is moist and it looks like the wood might break any second. Well covered in moss and mushrooms it speaks of many seasons. Slinging over the shoulder is the trusted tool, looking innocent until faced somewhere but the sky.

Each step an adventure, each noise a possible point of interest. Scents and silence only to be broken by the call of the wild, the wind and the rhythm of the breath.

The top, covered by a small roof, ready to serve, once again. The seat is still cold from last nights abandonment of post. The feeling is a mixture of excitement, tension and relaxation. Whether something happens or not, is up to the infinite and mind-bending complexity of the universe. Therefore, too much to spend even a single thought on.

It is a sitting game, it is one of advanced positioning, silence, solitude, and waiting. Impatience is its greatest enemy and calmness the highest virtue.

There is a reason why all of this, is, a sitting game. But now, please…