Category: Weekly state (Page 7 of 23)

Trendy word, I know.

Hard to find a central point these times. Polarised by external pressure, there is hardly any room to be left for anything abnormal. Being strange, deviating from the norm. It has driven art and literature. Now we need to warn people of it. It has become something to be looked down upon.

Papa Shanghai, what a name. Strange, now that we think about it. Not at all connected to Shanghai, not being a papa. Maybe a Papa spiritually speaking, Papa Shanghai imagines and hopes. So why not embrace this completely disconnected name? Phonetics are good, it does not hurt anyone. So here I am being your Papa. Without any correlation but still somehow connected to Shanghai.

I am edging. Edging opinions, stories, views. Good old fashioned borderline self. Without hurting, just being a bit off. A very small amount off the average, the mainstream.

Do I find myself getting more recognition because of it? Hell no. Do I want it? Hell no. Do I feel comfortable doing it?

Hell yes.

One hair longer, one shorter. Click clack, I try to make my way through the dense fog. The legs are wobbly but I have a crutch.

Squinting at the sky. I can’t see the sun, only clouds. Still, the brightness hurts my eyes. The only steady bit is the ground but my feet give up. I hold onto the crutch, it is firmly attached to my left arm.

Click clack, I continue my way forward through dampness, lit up by a hidden sun. Where’s the wind to blow it away? Why is the sun hiding? Who took the soles from my feet and exchanged them with pudding?

I reach a red neon sign, my crutch moves towards it.

“Do you want to have a beer?”

– I nod.

Certain things in life go on forever. The timeline on social media, the hunger for something better, the aging process. For humans, many things are inevitable, without any ending. The continuous struggle and search stops for no one. The one who has everything according to an external observer will tell you, that they don’t.

Upgrades, updates. More shine, more bling.

Erase imperfections, sand down yourself, sand down your personality. The realisation that humanity is playing on repeat has formed a ubiquitous mass of consciousness, going round and round.

How to escape the hamster wheel? Well, revolt against the process without any end. Stop it. Stop it by finishing something, whether it is a book or the project you started forever, which is now lying around sadly. Reminding you of the struggle in the forever. Finalise it, finish it.

That being said, see you next week.

Lobster-like skin. Living leather.

A massive ball of fire is continuously exploding in the sky. What sounds like doom for all life on the surface of the planet, is actually a pleasant surprise. Spring has arrived and with it, the fireball tickles the sensitive skin.

I have seen certain people praying to the sun. Lying in their gardens, on beaches and everywhere the light touches, grilling themselves and bathing in radiation. The skin is scared, it has not been uncovered since winter. It screams, but unfortunately humans do not understand the language of skin.

So the skin becomes agitated, frustrated and angry. It flares up, rages. How could this host treat its outer shell like this? It hinders the organs from falling out, it gives pleasure. And in return? It is being burned by a massive ball of fire, willingly.

The skin gets roasted and with it, angry. For hours on end it screams, until it becomes a different shade. The battle is lost, the host disagrees.

“The tan is coming in, nicely.”

– Red.

My dear, my friend, hiding in the dark to shine brightest in my hand.

Even a metaphysical entity needs pleasure. Of course, I am enjoying observing and expressing my thoughts that manifest in dishes served to you weekly. I have to admit, I am late, as spring has just started.

I have been infected by humanly desires, urges and even fears. The solution of which is often times found in various forms of escaping. It might be daydreaming, accelerating consumerism, praying for something else to a floating entity which may or may not exist. But for me, the vice I picked up, is stored in my cold and dark refrigerated space.

While I make my way over there, I need to reflect on the various ways of escaping the ever-beating drum of life. As I am excluded from this conversation, floating through time and space, I have my own ways of dealing with the immense pressure of the void. But this one I copied.

Its name is beer, and I produced my own. Because I have the time.