Category: Weekly state (Page 5 of 30)

Blushing is the sign of a noble heart.

As the winds of change carry me back to where some part of me was lost, I openly embrace my inner Prince Myshkin. Coming back to the place that carries so much memories and enchants me repeatingly, I open my mind and shut my mouth. Overwhelmed I strut along the paths I have walked so many times before. Inebriated, infatuated, idiotic.

Now for some of you that know dear Papa Shanghai and have followed along the paths of useless wisdom, these are no news. You can probably guess where I have taken shelter for a limited time. But this is more than a Dacha, it is an ever-changing tune that continues to resonate.

As the author that wrote the inspiration for the state of this week did, I write hurringly. Clustered and mysterious, I myself do not know what my personal Prince Myshkin is doing this week.

Bystanders see me smile, standing amid the masses, looking up. Stamped idiotic, perceived as naive. But I am too busy to listen to these interpretations, I am searching for the parts that are somewhere hidden in this place. Doing so, I do not even realise that I am losing tiny bits again. And so it goes.

I inspect myself in this giant mirror, as I did many times before. The place has not changed, only me. So I blush, hoping that this mirror will not change, only myself.

I want the potatoes, yes with the garlic. I want curry, definitely with coriander. I want the beer, as cold as possible.

I want the beach, annoyingly hot. So I can cool down in the sea. I want the music, loud and crispy clear. I want the bed, cozy and fresh.

I drive compassion, without any strings attached. I drive empathy, without judging. I drive kindness, without fearing vulnerability.

I want life, on max volume. I want experience, with all senses blasted. I want reckless energy, with the sword of Damocles hanging above me.

“So we have ice cold beer and spicy food”

“PERFECT”.

A sandwich so beautiful, I don’t even eat it.

A slice of sourdough toast, soft and yet so comforting. Not even the toasting sun of the Atlantic coast is able to burn it. Instead, tiny freckles on its surface arise.

A layer of romaine lettuce, crispy and refreshing. A pleasure for the eye and the soul. Not an excuse to have some vegetables with a seemingly (so people say) unhealthy meal, but a true and necessary edition to foreshadow the underlying depth.

Some cheese, for comfort. The form and consistency don’t even matter, the only important bit is the maturity. For maturity cannot be learned, it is only achieved. Some never succeed in reaching that level.

A bit of sauce. In this case, slight spicyness to reflect the character of its origin, a warm and cultured coastal town in northern Portugal. From here, explorers with good and bad intentions have ventured onto the sea. They brought back a new world of spice and sensation. The sauce smells gorgeous.

Another slice of bread, as all good things must have a beginning and an end.

As I look at the beauty I get nervous. A perfectly complex representation of what I long for.

I have another look and decide to let the moment pass. It will haunt me, but oh so sweetly.

The wiggle of a dog’s tail. The smell of incoming rain after a hot day. The moment of finishing a good book. Creating something, creating art. Being truthful and open. Caring.

The smell of a favourite drink. A comfortable chair. Friday.

The goosebumps from a new song. Laughter in a group. Laughter with yourself, about yourself, alone. Wind on a hot day. Having brought sunglasses when you need them.

Stillness. A surprising pleasure. Thoughtfulness. Cooking something. Serving food to friends. Preparing someone’s favourite meal. Petting a dog.

Practicing everything and nothing in particular. Practicing nonchalance. Practicing good living.

I am sitting on a rail trolley and someone is pulling me towards the sun.

The blinding light is burning my eyes and all senses are numbed. Logic is lost when the only thing you worry about is where you are being pulled.

The henchman in the gold Trenchcoat glitters in the sun. Will he bring me to the promised land or eternal doom? What does the promised land even look like?

The wheels are squeaking and slowly we are making our way, somewhere, I guess…

I have accepted my fate. I could stand up and walk, but in which direction? Should I run ahead of the henchman or go the other way? Maybe the henchman knows better? Maybe there is a bigger plan, or is he just trotting along the rails? I mean, rails go somewhere.

I lie down on the rail trolley and rest my head on the wooden planks.

“Hey Mr Golden Henchman, what’s your name”

“I am you, Papa Shanghai”