Category: Thoughts on humans (Page 3 of 4)

She was sitting on a bench with a full package of toast. Silently sobbing, she felt sad and angry. The ducks and pidgeons around here were more interested in the bag of bread than her, still it felt nice not to sit around alone in a park. “A little like being connected to nature”, she said and sniffed her nose.

She was hurt like so many before her, she knew that it would end this way. Still, it was a great ride. The places, the food, the sheer speed of the way of life. If you are speeding through days like this, it is no wonder to come to a stop earlier than anyone else. Either you run out of gas or just hit the breaks because you cannot see clearly around you anymore. But what if there no way to hit the accelerator again? How can I get moving again? “Well, here I am sitting now, she thought, in a traffic jam. In front of a constant red light. Who really controls the signal?” She will not find out.

Everyone told her: do not get into that car. Do not hit the gas. Do not think about change, think about what you have. Your car might not be the fastest but it gets there, eventually. So they said. “But where?”, she asked the ducks in front of her and threw a whole slice. The ducks and pidgeons came from every direction, fighting for the white bread.

“I do not want to feel the pain anymore, why am I even crying? I knew the risk, I took it. I enjoyed it. But now, I am sobbing with toast in my hand. Actually, this reminds me of something we always had for lunch, after skipping breakfast. This horrible thing that looks amazing from the outside. Crispy, deliciously smelling. Warmed up in a beat, for your pleasure. You take a bite and it stings you with the heat of the sun. Tongue burned, palate ruined. But there it is, the savoury smell of grilled cheese. Yeah, now that I am thinking about it, still all was like a hot pocket.”

She sniffed her nose, smiled a little, emptied the whole package of toast on the ground and leaned back on the bench.

“Fucking hot pockets”.

We all get asked at some point what we want to become once we grow up. And we answer “astronaut”, “firefighter”, “someone rich”, “someone famous”, “author” or “someone with my own garden where I can grow my favorite vegetable”. I mean, whatever makes you happy. But who would say “the person stamping tickets in a rustic bus in a post-Soviet country”?

Well maybe this guy stamping my ticket right now. Who knows? Who am I to judge? Actually, it’s more challenging and surprising than it seems. He is there, cramming his way through the crowd. Always there, known to everyone who regularly takes this route. It’s the same price for everyone, same ticket every time. There is comfort in it. He knows every bump in the street. Every crossing and just 5 seconds later, he knows where to hold on because the bus is taking a massive bump in the road. A friendly tap on the back by the guy who is coming back from the pub. A little smile from the woman who just finished her shift.

We are all here in the same boat, bus in this case. It’s familiar faces and new ones. Maybe he is looking around, seeing the same faces with different expressions. He is the one who can detect mood swings. Bad day at work? He can probably tell the difference. Happy occasion? He will know it. But you won’t. That’s the difference. He will even know when you are new to this bus line. So when I am looking around, looking at him, I cannot help but feel foolish about my estimations. I can write whatever I want but I won’t come close to what he knows.

So sit down, guy stamping my ticket. It would be my honour to have a beer with you. Share your insights, your knowledge, your experience and understanding. Or don’t. Who am I to expect anything or judge? But maybe, just maybe, I will learn something. Even from your silence. So have a drink with me.

And all I am left with, is to say,

Thank you.

The whole morning she was unhappy with herself. Something was missing. It kind of went through the whole start-of-the-day routine. First of all, the pillow had escaped over the night. Now her neck hurt because she was only lying on the mattress. Waking up, everything ached and her neck was happily cracking. How she wished to be someone else. Next, the shower just completely ignored her need of warm water. It just would not get warm. Also, the shampoo was empty. “Why do I even shower then”, she thought while drying her hair. And this continued for the whole morning. The toast was soggy, the butter too hard, the crunchy cereal too soft. The wind too strong, the sun hiding behind clouds. The people too grim, her boss too happy. Oh how she wished to be someone else that day.

But still, she was missing this little something. Maybe a feeling, inside her. Rumbling, churning her stomach.

He represented his kind with all the pride he had. A little deformed but full of elation. Some say, you are stronger in a group. Here, he was in one but this little guy could have easily filled the role by himself. He was put into this little bread just this morning. He had a good position, just sitting on the outside on top of the bread. He could see everyone coming in, going by the baked goods aisle. He did not wish to be picked by someone special, he was just proud to be representing his kind, the raisins.

She was on her way to get lunch when she passed the deliciously smelling breads. For a moment, her stomach stopped murmuring. “Maybe that´s what I need?”. She picked the bread and put it into a paper bag. Happy to have the chance to brighten her day, they both were happy when she approached the cashier. She paid and sat down in front of the supermarket. Full of hope she took the first bite.

“Ewww. That´s raisins.”

Oh how he wished to be someone else.

This is not how his story ends. For he was not being eaten, only his colleague. He leapt of the bread and watched her throw away the bag.

“No, I do not want to be someone else. I am a raisin. I am the unloved version of a grape. Who are you to judge? You have not been pressed and dried. You are standing there, full of water and all those disgusting fluids that you need to survive. I have surpassed life. I am non-perishable. Who are you to judge my taste. You will loose your water, then we can talk about who is disgusting. I will not stand for this as long as the raisins are discriminated.

Wish to be someone else because I will not.”

Chop, chop chop. With forty-five thousand rounds per minute the blades massacre the lascious green. Only the tips land in the basket to collect them. The severed pieces are thrown onto each other, left to rot, someplace nobody knows. Whats is left is a meticulously leveled plateau of plants. Humans find it pleasant that way. Why? Who knows. This roaring machine makes everything plain and wipes away any obstacle in its path. That reminds me of something…

“You are talking too much, be quiet!”

“You are giggling too much, what´s the matter with you?”

“Have you done your homework?”

“What are your parents gonna think about this when I tell them?”

“Don´t run in the yard!”

“Don´t run!”

“Don´t!”

And in the end, just maybe, you feel like one of these blades of grass. Standing there, upright, in the middle of everybody else. You cannot move, you are not supposed to. And whatever made you distinct, it got chopped of. By that huge blade, swinging over you, daring you to come closer. But what is supposed to change? It has always been that way, for you, for the grass. Humans find it pleseant that way. Why? Who knows.

So whatever you do, don´t be a brick in the wall. Be a stone in the grass. Dent that blade. Make the dent memorable so at least you won´t get your head chopped off for nothing.