Papa Shanghai´s Takeout

The bigger I get, the smaller I feel.

I have my own ivory tower made out of assumptions and preconceived notions. It is quite shaky, I must admit. A mild breeze can fling me around my tiny bubble of an office. Up here, it is hard to see. Even harder to navigate. My limbs are so far away from me, it takes days for any nervous signal to reach the muscles. Yet, I feel small inside.

A big construct of flesh and bones, nerves and hair. From afar, I appear as a shiny Fata Morgana, an oasis of sorts. “Look how lush and green!”, you’d say. Others might agree. As you come closer, the water evaporates.

I am not alone, there is thousands of me. Putting fear into people by our distant stance. Looming over others. We won’t come closer. Firstly, because you’d see how small and fragile we actually are. Secondly, because I can’t move my muscles fast enough to actually get out of this position.

I am doomed now, having inflated myself too greatly. I tower above, merely a bystander. I shout out from high above, trying to make sense. Trying to become what I look like I am. A big, prosperous illusion of something.

I hope no one has the guts to come closer.

I am power.

Gotta let off some steam if you’ve been cooking all day.

My cauldron is full of good things. Herbs and spices, thoughts and an extra portion of love for life. Bitterness just to balance it, I am not a fan of sweet indulgences. Simmering away, slowly becoming something that resembles pudding in viscosity. The smell? As an olfactory passionista, I can be enticed by many things. A bit of smoke, a mysterious appeal. Perhaps the smell of incoming rain on a dry heath. Maybe the smell of fog in between the trees in the forest in winter? Moss. Cheese. Beer. Anything pickled. You remember?

I can’t wait for what I have been brewing here. It’s not ready yet. Unfortunately, I won’t know, when the exact point in time will be to unleash this beast of a potion into the wild. Into myself.

I feel its warmth, its depth. I know. I am sure.

But now please let me be. I need to squeeze some thoughts into this juice. You can leave the door open. I’ll come out when the cauldron is full and I am done.

Sorry, do you mind? Yeah, just kind of make waves with your hand so it floats over here. Yes, perfect. Hm okay maybe a bit in a waving off motion? Yes, like that! Slowly slowly, just a tiny bit. Wonderful, got it! Thank you dear.

I grab the martini glass from its tiny inflatable mattress and take a sip. Sunglasses on to protect my eyes from the radiating spotlights in the ceiling. I smell chlorine and water. With that olive slowly dancing around my tongue and the bitter drink going down my throat I am in the Mediterranean.

Iconic, to be drifting around in someone’s head. It’s like a pool, only the water is creative juice. What is waiting on shore? I can’t say, haven’t seen it in years. Perhaps you can tell me? I mean, you’re looking inside from outside. I presume your guess is at least about as good as mine.

It’s just annoying that the sweet treats drift around here somewhere as well. With a big pool like this one they’re hard to get a hold of. What if my pool was a little smaller?

In the end it’s not the worst place to hang out. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I have to old onto those cocktail glasses for dear life in turbulent times. But during days like these, when the pool starts to sing, vibrate and sparkle in all shades of blue, I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful place.

But now I must drift off. Coagulation is kinda bad, you know? But hey, before you go, can you send that charcuterie board with the stinky cheese over here please?

Much appreciated.

The gates of heaven have a huge padlock on them and I can’t even read the numbers.

Sure feels like I have come to the right place. I mean it’s all white and sunny here. Smells a bit like vanilla, too. Not the artificial stuff, the real deal. Creamy and pungent. But honestly, who opened this damn cage of mine?

If you don’t like the cage, piss in it. At least that’s what I have heard. If I really did it? I don’t even know who opened that damn door. Sure didn’t smell like vanilla in there, I can promise you that.

Now that I am standing right in front of these metal bars I am contemplating whether I am doomed to be locked into something. Maybe I am locked out of something? Who even decides what is in and out? Do we just vaguely follow the smell of vanilla and see where it’s pleasant? Anyway, beats the hell out of piss for sure.

I can’t really say that the lifeless bodies around me and the terrible stench were really hell. As you might have read, I kind of appreciate the fallen angel, the emperor of the underground. If you haven’t, you can read about it here. So honestly, I don’t even dare to insult that place with comparing it to my cage.

What a life for a metaphysical entity. Do I even belong into heaven if I get there? Am I not doomed to roam forever? I am transient anyway, why do I follow the binary system of humans?

I guess I want to belong. So I make compromises, I choose. I give up my endless freedom for a chance of confined happiness. My god (or whoever has the combination to the padlock) – do I put myself in a better cage?

How does yours look?

Do you have the key?