I’ll stand in line with all the mistreated, disgruntled and cheated things on this round object floating in the galaxy.

I’ll raise my fist for all raisins, for the people not being picked for a sports team, for the ones that can’t talk and the ones that won’t.

I’ll shield all the unpopular opinions and fight the stigma. I will neither attack nor fight, only when my line of defence is crossed.

My resolute response is not driven by anger but by determination.

The things may come, I’ll will be here. I will hold my shield. I have support and I will not yield.

I will fight injustice, no matter from where. I’ll fight!

Even myself.

Now give me that damn stinky cheese.

So bad but so good.

Olive oil, butter and the many greasy things that follow are the foundation upon which the most delicious things slide down.

I have the urge to be the same. By itself, too much. In combination, necessary. I want to be greasy, slippery. Hard to catch, harder to digest. Oh what glorious tastes still await for the keen reader!

When challenging yourself to a new taste, dish or even whole cuisine, it can be quite a lot. The names are terrifying and the process of making them even more so. The culture is different and my palate a virgin. Will I let it be touched by a new sensation? Will I stay in the golden cage of what is known or will I step out into the street and eat from a plastic stool?

We have the comfort, we need the reassurance. But I crave more, I produce more. I want to be the butter and the olive oil. I want to be the greasy in between your grinding gears. I want to be greasy.

Promise it will be tasty.

Here is sit, squat and sweat. Crumbs on my shirt, dissolving cubes in my beer.

My love for the plastic stool that makes me look even more ridiculous than I already am started early with one of my role models preaching. Not only preaching but teaching. Humility on the tiny chair, only slightly lifted from the dirty floor.

Now, here, you can look down on me. You could, if you wanted, push me over easily. But I look up and smile, sweat in my burning eyes.

The tiny plastic stool radiates comfort in discomfort. It is a state of being, a way of settling for something you usually wouldn’t settle for. It puts us on equal levels, diminishing self-imposed hierarchies. As long as you have a snack, a beer and a cigarette we are equal.

I suck on the ice cubes, inhaling scooter fumes and a bit of cigarette. My behind connects with the monobloc chair, I become plastic myself.

After all, seeing this, learning, can you really look down on someone squatting on a miniature plastic stool?

Heat and humidity are my realm.

I am surrounded by the green, everywhere I look. It nurtures me, bite by bite. I have seen a thousand lifetimes into the future and here I am, tranquil. Wars and aggression dominate the world but I have learned to be gentle. Moving beyond classification, competition and anger. I am here, surrounded by green.

True power does not come from skill, nor does it come from size or strength. The power that people ascribe to me is one that radiates unknowingly and subliminally, surpassing the mere ideas of humans.

In my eyes, there is knowledge, in my behaviour, there is peace. I am social, I am happy.

I didn’t choose to be regal, it came to me. I am a majesty, a matriarchal monarch. For some, I am a demigod.

Here I am, surrounded by green. Seeing through your soul, praying and hoping that you will become at peace.

In the end, majestic.

I say this to you from a plastic chair upon which I profusely sweat.

I have arrived. It is a strange feeling to arrive, truly arrive at a place that you didn’t longed for in the beginning. It was just hiding in plain sight, unbeknownst to my soul. We didn’t know each other but we are here, having a honeymoon.

It makes me sweat, it drenches me. It leaves me wanting more and punished me by burning off my lips and tongue. I want the heat, the hurt, the heart.

The lights sing me a lullaby, one of chaos and comfort, cradling me drowsy in boozy sleep. Every corner, a new temptation, new sensation hitting my poor nostrils. My brain is loaded and all I can think of is the sheer power that this place strikes me with.

My willpower is gone, only instincts survive. Come sit down, be damp, be wet, be happy, sweat.

I’ll have some beer as well.