Papa Shanghai´s Takeout

Once these farts leave my brain don’t put a lighter close to my head.

The feeling of a balloon flying somewhere off. Is it truly independent if there’s a string connecting it to the ground? Even if the string goes on forever, is the balloon free?

Surely it is filled with helium. Wanting to burst, filled to its maximum expansion. It strives for greater things, somewhere up there. Away from down there? What is it that makes the sky so appealing? Why do we want to leave the ground?

Ikarus has tried. The Wright brothers did. One melted away, the others were a bit more successful. Now the balloon floats somewhere in between.

Unfortunately, the air is not made of helium and I do not have a string. But I can inhale, try. Yes, make my head expand as big as a balloon. Perhaps I’ll levitate towards the sky?

I’ll update you on my fate.

Float on my friends, can you just hold this string?

Squeeeaaaak.

Slowly I make my way through the masses. Towering over me, the faces of the trotting. I know my destination, I could hurry, just like them. But why bother?

Squeeeeaaaaaak.

My body is limp. I move along the highly polished tiles. Everything blings and costs twice as much as in the free world. Who buys a six pack of Vodka bottles?

Squeeeaaaaak.

My head is facing sideways, my cheeks on the floor. The hands are lazy today, just following the general movement of my snail-like body. I have my house with me, can you see it? It looks like a black suitcase but I promise it is my house, at least for now.

Squeeeaaaaak.

I wonder why no one bothers with me. Here I am, inspecting myself in the mirrors on the floor, worming my way to the next destination. A truly lawless place, ruled with an iron fist. How far can I go?

Squeeeeaaaaak.

One last movement. I drag my face across the tile, lift my bottom for a final push. I have reached my destination, in a weird way. But this is a strange place. Until the next gate opens, I’ll be here, in between worlds. Dragged to my final destination.

Give me all the eggs you have. I mean it, ALL of them.

The perfect morning omelette takes time. As with many things, I urge you all to take a breather before diving heads first into a delicious, plum cake.

Room temperature eggs. Yes, put them out of the fridge you weirdo! Crack them. 3 per person, AT LEAST. Salt them. Yes, before. Give them a good whirl, so as to homogenise them like the state of your mind.

Wait a minute and have a sip of that coffee. You deserve it. Pet your dog. Pet your cat. Pet someone. If there is no one, pet yourself. You have come this far, gotten out of bed and already next to the stove.

Heat up the pan, just enough. Knob of butter, coat the pan. Let it bubble. In with the egg. Don’t let it settle! Continuously, not nervously, make rounds with your spoon. Remember when I told you not to heat up the pan too much? Well if you did, you’ll already have a clumpy mess.

Slowly, slowly, this is a Sunday! Don’t rush into things. Put down the heat, in the pan and in your mind.

Circling around the pan, see the eggs get all cozy in there. Sweet creamy goodness.

If the thought crossed your mind that in a few moments longer they’ll be done, it is already the moment they’re done.

Sourdough bread. Pepper, fresh, of course! Maybe some chives? Hell yeah.

Yessssss.

The first time my food stall has produced some food. Not for thought, actually. After 4 years it’s time.

Enjoy the eggy goodness. And remember, don’t heat up too fast! You’ll get all clumpy.

Swinging from the top of my cathedral, trying to be as nonchalant as Quasimodo.

Surrounded by beauty, I roam the magnificent towers. Forever in every heart of all citizens, in the city of love. What should be a romantic tale ends up portraying the ugliness – not of my hunchback and bushy eyebrows – but the hatred towards those who don’t roam the streets forward-facing.

I run backwards, the last thing you see is my face. An exercise in de-prioritising superficial beauty. If I wasn’t on my way to ring those bells of the church you love so much, you wouldn’t see me.

I swing, back and forth, I lurk and squat, high above. The gargoyles as my closest confidants, we ask questions. We wonder who is ugly in character, yet has the most appealing silhouette.

I call you to prayer, into my refuge. I open the doors, I let in all those silhouettes. Will you use your chance to turn yourself inside out?

I wonder, I ask. Who’s the hunchback lurking from below? Looking straight up, all shackled to the fabric of society? Locked to walk the earth forever.

Why don’t you come up here? Shed your silhouette, come and ask questions. Be inquisitive, stay curious. Live and love vicariously.

As fate drags me further along the roadhouse of life, I sit strapped in my seat, trying to sip my beer.

Wondrous ways have led me to believe that every new day is unique. Still I wonder, is it really? There is an infinite amount of choices, that is a given. But where do I draw the line of newness and obscene mundanity?

The circle keeps haunting me and I am strapped to the passenger seat. Is there anything I can do?

I reach another round, another trip. The earth makes its trips and we call it a day. How do I call my round, given that I even notice I made a full circle? I keep looking back and I have to tell you, the past is close than you think!

Yet here I am, all cushiony and soft. Strapped in for all of the entertainment to behold. Trying to look forward but someone forgot to activate the windshield wipers.

In the end I blast through the universe, 1600 kilometres per hour. How am I even supposed to catch a glimpse?

Get ready with me, to start a new circle (or continue and old one?). I’ll be here, with you. Happy to see what’s coming.

Wanna hold my hand?