Just another millennial journey

Angry
A sudden jolt into existence: you did it again. The bed and world seem to have
dissociated, orbiting the sun at independent speeds. Last night was deep techno, but
for some reason the gimmicky pop tune that’s been cycling on that stupid youtube car
advert has anchored itself to your last functioning neurone. The chorus spikes along
with the invisible drill that’s slowly been making its way to the forefront of your
consciousness. Only a handful of seconds pass when you finally leap out of bed.
Sticking a sub-par landing on the moving ground, the door violently flies open. You
run. The bathroom door is closed. Fuck. Why does everything have to be so
complicated? You swing your entire body backwards, striking an odd symbiosis with
the opposing forces currently tormenting your gut. The door opens. So close. Your gut
has a surprise in store though, and the bathroom floor will do just fine. You collapse
next to your latest creation and remember: it’s Tuesday.

You were born in the mid-90s. You can still vividly feel the sensation of wonder that
shaped your reality, as clunky desktops cocooned into tactile pocket computers, as
legos evolved into playstations. Life was simple. Get a diploma, get a degree, get a
job, done deal. To the tune of “we all want to change the world,” you leapt into the
problems at hand and got to solving. The list was long. It’s still way too long. But,
you’ve decided to pick one and pin your hopes on other humans getting their shit
together: good. So you find yourself a year into a contract with a fossil crisis think
tank, straddling the lines between the public, academic, and — your attributed locker
— private. In the distance a pandemic is wreaking havoc, but your life hasn’t changed
much since college. The desk in the corner of the room is quickly becoming your most
visited destination, and you’re proficiency in typing under three hundred words of
bullshit is nearing master consultant. However, that’s not all. After the first few
months of agonising over email signatures, you’re now an expert in signing your one-
minute haikus with a despondent “TY” while simultaneously juggling the mute button
to paraphrase a point that’s been regurgitated over the last fifty-five minutes.

“It’s all about time,” you find yourself saying, minutes from the end of business hours.
It’s Friday, and you’re not about to prolong the time left between you and blackout.

“You see, we’re a little short on resources on our end, and would prefer to prioritise
the CCU project [if only we got less funding from shells] over the next two weeks.”

“I understand, bu…and, I think we should schedule a lunch next week to finalise our
citizen engagement strategy. It will help lay the grounds for the PPP…to continue
removing the silos.”
Oh bureaucrats, bless them, they really do try sometimes. They just want to help, and
yet those lingering buzzwords still haunt you. Every time they’re murmured over a
crackled connection, you can still feel the unnerving shiver, like goosebumps but bad,
stimulate your frustration sensor. Like silo…since when was agri-lingo commonplace
for the suited folk. You didn’t grow up on a ranch way out west, so naturally “silo”
was not in your vocabulary until it became your only vocabulary.

“Ok, well we’ll connect offline [but actually still via internet] after to schedule it.
Anyone have any questions left?”

Mistake! You’ve just guaranteed another few minutes of circular monologues because
there’s always that one person who feels they haven’t said quite enough.

“Yes, sorry. Can you hear me?”

“Yep, shoot [WHY?!].”

“Well as was rightly pointed out, the stakeholder engagement facade remains a core
component. For us, this would be the perfect opportunity to set aside a paper focused
specifically on the…”

Just shut up already. These academics are the pinnacle of pedantry. Obviously it
makes sense, given we live in an era of metrics, and counting papers is easier than
measuring actual contribution to society. Don’t pause too long on that contributing-to-
society thought. It fucks with you every day: ninety-odd percent of grant money
flushed into oblivion. Maybe best to just nod and unconsciously pronounce a “we’ll
keep that in mind.” The call’s finally over. Thank goodness, you can finally crack
open a beer. Also, you’re three pints in so not swaying on screen was starting to
become a challenge.

Friday and Saturday blend together. Unspoken cocktails melt your consciousness. It’s
only on Sunday that the gaping hole between the universe of the night and the
universe of responsibility finally materialises. “Sunday, bloody Sunday.” Sunday is
anxiety. It is the very embodiment of your contemporary’s paralysis. The epitome of
nostalgia, the definition of stress, Sundays have been haunting you since primary
school. The day that marks the end of your freedom and beginning of your regrets.
Mercifully, another hangover is hard at work and your isolated couch, for once,
presents a comforting shelter to your confused body. The miracle hangover cure also
helps, and the day eventually fades.

So that brings you to yesterday. The introduction of a routine week, fuelled by

caffeine and nicotine, quickly flushed into a forgotten past. But, there’s a twist. This
Monday is not like the others. There are emails. There are too many of them. There is
a forced lunch break, where seconds of small talk are counted and arbitraged against
the amount of work left to be done. But the usual cowardice is replaced by the revolt.
The revolt that has spent years accumulating. The revolt that started as an unexplained
discomfort. The revolt that was catalysed by finally understanding what it is to be an
“adult.” No, this Monday is not like any others. This Monday is a clean slate.

“I see where you’re coming from,” your manager scoffs, “but those metrics aren’t
tailored to our context. You see [oh, how ironic], we would require a more detailed
analysis of the fuel composition before confirming the benefits of the overall capture
system. Then, we can get to the drafting of the renewable energy alternatives. But it
won’t be for another three to five years, I’d think, until we can envisage funding for
behavioural change work.”

Your blood begins to boil. You wanted to do something that actually, for fucking
once, has a real impact on the wellbeing of your fellow humans. Yet, the one sitting in
front of you - who is actually supposed to be one of the good guys - is actively telling
you to not do it. Fantastic.

“I understand that it’s not an immediate priority, but it’s extremely relevant in the
frame of our ultimate goal. I mean we’re striving to sustain what’s left of our planet,
you know, so we should utilise the longest levers we can.”

“Yes but,” you’ve heard it all before, “this would require sign-off from legal, and need
to get approval through the ethics request…which can take more than nine months.
But I’ll definitely let you know if something similar comes up in the funding pipeline.
Either way, the core of the project remains the modelling and you need to get that
done first.”

“I don’t know if I agree with that. The model won’t have any impact if it doesn’t mean
anything to anyone outside our community.”

“You will still focus on the project at hand. And start with getting the report finalised
by tomorrow.”

“Ok.”

You exit the call infuriated. This morning you’d almost convinced yourself to have a
“productive” week…you’re already reaching to Friday’s close. A beer just to calm the
nerves. Perhaps a second. Is anyone out tonight? A bar would be a healthy place to let
off some steam. You don’t know that’s a lie yet. Your friend is sitting beside you, the
lights slightly dimmed, a bluesy riff filling the space where laughter and occasional
conversations are overheard. They’re not stomaching their tedious law-firm
internship. More people shuffle in, all in their twenties, and new rounds are ordered.
Talk of problems quickly dissipates as everyone notices the reason you’re all here.
You’re here to salvage what’s left of your hours. The jagermeister begins to flow and
the house begins to shake. Another night is well underway. You find yourself singing,
“I’m tired of waiting for the walls to cave.” To work, or to play, that is the question
that trickled out of the first shot. Now tomorrow is today and today, is Tuesday.
Numb
Who will have the time
To read more than a poem
With three simple lines

Well you probably aren’t any good at haikus, but at least you’re still alive. The water
sways up and down, the lake’s cymbals drowning out any thought. Thank god there
isn’t more than this. More than the infinite particles of smoothened rocks caressing
your toes; more than the invisible strings of extra-terrestrial bodies plucking up the
tiniest of tides; more than the incessant dancing of luminous beams on your eyelids;
more than life.

A month ago, you found yourself by the roadside, one thumb in the air with burnt
ochre stains styling your last white shirt. Your Tuesday morning adventures had
metamorphosed into a comfortable numbness, and an immediate call to action had
appeared in the rusty contents of the toilet bowl. Now called by the light, you’re
compelled to form a shaky list in your head. It doesn’t matter if you forget things; all
that matters is that you can reclaim your centre of gravity, find a bag, salvage a few
items of clothing, and leave with the decaying remnants of your piggy bank. You can’t
find any socks so flip-flops will suffice. Still struggling for balance you use your body
weight to push the front door open, stumbling out bent in half, almost catching your
chin on the warming pavement. Your hands intercede and you bounce back up, finally
catching a glimpse of the roasting midday sun. Conceivably too soon, as your stomach
beckons for another cleanse. This is surely what shades were invented for, and
thankfully for you they’re clasped to the cotton collar securing the head on your
shoulders. The light dims to a manageable spectrum and you can continue to follow it.
It leads you to the chaotic city road where automobiles, bicycles and pedestrians jostle
arrogantly for precious seconds of their own time. Too much action going on, best to
walk one foot in front of the other towards calmer streets. Shades of grey, sparkling in
the congested hue of daytime, accompany your ears away from the brouhaha of
civilisation as an hour passes and the city mutates into a pleasing murmur.

There’s nowhere in particular to go, as long as it’s far away from everyone and the
sun can be felt melting unprotected skin - the edge of the world, that’s where you need
to be. The coastline is west; that’s the compass you follow. Arriving at a roundabout
you see the signs marking the distance and direction to the ocean. Setting aside your
backpack, to the satisfaction of your hunched shoulders, you stick out your thumb and
wait. Each passing car brings with it a cool flow of air on your dirty fingertips. You’re
in no rush to get there now that you know you’ve left. A fading volkswagen kombi
minivan approaches from the south, its bug-eyed headlights indicating your exit, and
this seems like your chance. It could be the gentle teal tone or maybe the rattling
surfboards strapped to its head, but you feel this vehicle will take you to your
destination. You venture a foot onto the asphalt, your arm extended across the white
lines. The van is slowing and you can perceive the pilot; an older man with a
surprising set of flowing amber hair somehow clinging on to his wrinkling skull. He
smiles and you’re in.

“Hey there! Where you headed?”

“The ocean, anywhere is fine.”

“Perfect, I’m on my way to visit my husband. He’s been catching some killer waves.
Big swell this week so good timing. Would you like some water? The sun’s hitting
hard today. It’s always nice to have company on these longer drives. I would’ve been
up there already, but needed to finish putting some affairs in order, you know. The ol’
vw needed some doing up too. Her engine isn’t really running as cleanly as she used
to. But that’s what happens when you get old, eh. Mine’s certainly not running as
smoothly either.”

He laughs at his own joke, remembering to pass you the bottle of water. You would
thank him, but he seems to be thoroughly enjoying talking to someone so you let him
ramble on. You were in no mood to have a conversation, so the ideal road companion
seems to have picked you up. Sometimes things just work out. You look out the
window, watching the scenes change as the movie unfolds around you. Mild oranges
and deep purples paint the summer fields with van Gogh-esque strokes, as sunflowers
twist their heads to follow you while you follow the sun west. The man has quieted
down, and granted your permission, has put in a cassette labeled “Beach Tapes, ’69.”
Soon you find yourself dozing off to the sweet soul of Otis, the waves flowing in
Brian Wilson’s mind, as early McCartney-Lennon words of wisdom are punctuated by
the power of Clapton’s creamy tones. The afternoon strikes four to the rhythm of the
rattling surfs and, as your forehead vibrates softly on the glass pane, your
unconsciousness takes over. When your eyes reopen, the scenery is darker. The
colours of the day have subsidised into black and white. You notice the van has come
to a slow stop - the change in pace surely having alerted your body to wake. You have
arrived. The man points out the assembly of petite white houses, sporadically arranged
in some sort of town on the hill across from the beach. You thank him, wish him a
good stay, grab your bag and make your way. As you climb the slope, you reach for
your phone. It must’ve been at least 8 hours since your last cigarette and your blood
demands you find a nicotine supply. Also, it’s definitely time to wash away the end of
a happy hour. Your right hand rummages in its respective pocket, then makes its way
across to the other. No luck. You swing your bag off your shoulders and pause to
inspect its contents: two black underwear, grey shorts, one black and one maroon t-
shirt, some cash, a credit card and no phone. Interesting. You’re really going to have
to commit this time. The plan is now simple. You’re going to find alcohol, cigarettes,
and as a last resort people, to procure the former two.

Approaching the main road, lights slap on in the dusk and you make out a few
sparsely populated bars. The first one to your right is playing host to some older
locals, their scaly skin reddened by a lifetime without sunscreen. They’re deeply
engaged in their dialect, with the occasional word completely escaping your
vocabulary. The scene seems quiet and you need a place to crash tonight, so it might
be worth a few more steps up the cobblestone path towards a slightly louder terrace on
the left. You haven’t eaten anything today, but although your haphazard journey
should’ve taken its toll on your legs, the fatigue is only felt in your burnt-out mind.
You grab an empty steel chair by a round pearl table for two, pulling the second chair
around to drop your bag. The salty air is picked up vigorously by the wind as a
reminder that your lungs need some refreshing. A waitress comes over to take your
order: a pint of whatever’s on the singular tap and a packet of camels. She smiles
politely and moves to the adjacent table, spaced out by a tan parasol. The kids at the
table couldn’t have been born before the turn of the millennium. Between innocent
eyes and sheepish laughs, the pink-cheeked boys begin learning that the mascaraed
girls are just as insecure. You study the table for a few moments and silence strikes
while they all pause to absorb themselves in their pocket screens, necks bent down in
anguish. They’re a little too young; onto the next table. A group of twelve adults with
well-kept homeless beachside looks are hard at work recounting the day’s events,
casually swigging their gin and beer. The laissez-faire attitude, complemented by
baggy shirts and shorts, and folds by the side of their eyes - only made noticeable by
days spent squinting on shiny saltwater - tell you that this group is a prime find.
Before you can begin planning your appearance, the waitress is back with the long-
awaited goods. Immediately, instincts kick-in: plastic ripped off the pack, cigarette in
mouth, lighter activated. You breathe in, feeling the flow through your trachea, then
allow the cool beer to flush down your oesophagus and exhale. Another one, and
another. You allow your cigarette to rest on the hip of the ashtray and take four large
gulps until three-quarters of the lager is gone. None of this grants you more
satisfaction than it did Monday night, but at least it’s still the same sensation.

Picking back up your cancer stick, you lean back and twirl it between your fingers.
You’re fairly relaxed. So, what’s the gameplan now? You’re usually spontaneous, but
this isn’t spontaneity anymore - this is no tomorrow. Looking back at the table your
eyes instantly notice two things: a joint is being rolled and three of the girls have just
shot their heads back to swallow some medication. This is definitely the group that
will procure your unearthly experience; hopefully more intense than the watered-down
ones of the past few weeks. You must’ve been looking rather enviously at them
because one of the guys has now swivelled around on the hind legs of his chair.

“Hey, you seem new around here. You waiting for someone?”

“No just got here. Am actually trying to find out what there is to do.”

“Well pull up your chair and come meet the crew.”

You lift yourself up, the lactic acid momentarily triggering a slight pinch in your
thighs, but the next sip of beer releases it and you drag your chair across. You’re
pleasantly surprised by the group’s friendliness, as you exchange names with the five
at your end of the table and the first guy presents you to the rest. A quick cheers with
the whole table and the other side resumes their conversation. You don’t want to say
much about your story, it’s too long and boring, so you lean into light another
cigarette and allow yourself to laugh along with the current gossip on who slept with
who last night. The waitress comes around, joining in on the conversation and looks
over at you cheekily.

“Be careful with these ones. They go a little crazy.”

The table laughs, and your host responds with an arm patting her shoulder.

“Don’t worry we’ll take good care of this one.”

Another round is ordered. The waitress stops to take a shot on the house with the
table. Some sort of passion fruit vodka, too sweet for your taste, but you never say no
to free liquor. The joint begins circulating and your mind wonders away from your
body. A few more drinks. You’re no longer yourself, you now just are. The
conversation comes around to you.

“So, go on, what do you do in life?”

“I’m a professional hypocrite.” That always gets a good chuckle out of the crowd.
“Nah, I just conduct research on environmental shit. But kinda left my job yesterday.
It all seems a little futile, you know. It’s like the prisoner’s dilemma. If no one’s going
to sacrifice their way of life, then why should I? We all profit and we all get the same
sentence; easy and done.”

“Ah, someone needs a few more drinks to cheer up!” He waves his arm signalling to
the waitress another round. “That sounds like interesting stuff though. We need people
to start solving this mess.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, but for now I think we can leave that to someone else. Might as
well just enjoy what we’ve got left.”

You feel guilty. You know you’re a hypocrite. Acknowledging it doesn’t make you
stop though. If you want to reap the rewards from the system, then you have to
contribute to it. But why would you contribute to a system actively undermining your
environment? When these conversations come up you get the feeling that everyone is
looking at you, “why don’t you start solving it then? It’s the race of our lives, start
running for us.” The only rationale response is a middle finger and the words “if you
don’t fucking do it either, it doesn’t matter…we’re screwed.” So you revert to your
usual distraction of making people laugh, minimising your fear and hiding your shame
behind another cigarette.

“It’s not all doom and gloom though, when we live in a world where dogs can learn
how to surf.”
The end of the table laughs, a shot is drowned, and the conversation moves onto the
waves coming in tomorrow. You’ve never been good a surfing, but the powerlessness
you feel when the waves send you crashing down on the reef is one of the rare
moments where being sober is digestible. One of the yellow-haired girls next to you,
not particularly interested in the intricacies of the timings of the tide, strikes up a
conversation with you on what to do next. It’s nearing closing time, and she can tell
that you’re definitely joining the afters. She begins describing their place - a shack
some five minute drive out of town. Shouldn’t be a huge night, but the whole table’s
planning on dancing. She explains that the place is perched in-land on a remote lot
with no real walls or roof; a sort of open-aired wooden tent lifted on stilts in the
crevice of a sandy dune. They’ve gotten new lights recently and no limits on how loud
or late the music pounds. You know that’s exactly where you need to be. She offers
you a pill, ecstasy by the look of it - although you can never really tell - which is fine
by you. Time to get your dancing shoes on. The waitress comes by with a “we’re
closing now” round of shots and the card machine. You reach for your wallet to pay
up, but the guy next to you puts his hand firmly on your forearm. You won’t be
paying tonight. That’s fine by you too. It’s been your motto since college: free drinks,
free drugs, never say no. You all slowly make your way out of your seats, ambling
towards the cars parked on the grassy banks opposite the town hall. Obviously no
one’s good to drive, but, also obviously, you don’t care. You hop into a dusty five-
seater hatchback, squeezed in the backseat with the yellow-haired girl lying across the
laps. Only one person above capacity in your ride and two in the other; this is more
responsible than what you’re used to. You remember times spent with two people in
the trunk, one extra per lap and somehow three fitted on the front passenger seat. This
will be a safe drive, not that it matters. The drive is already becoming a blur. You
notice the roads are windy and remote. You notice the techno beat matching your
heart’s bpm. That’s about it and it’s more than enough.

Arriving at the den, the girl sits up and swings open the door as the car’s still coming
to a halt. She jumps out elegantly, placing a cute twirl while she pivots around and
grabs your hand. You follow towards firelight; a smaller group already present and
swaying in the shadows of the flames. Indeed, the shack seems to have been
constructed by hunter-gatherers and a diesel generator provides the only source of
energy for the flashing LEDs strung between the tepee-shaped roof and a nearby
mangrove. One of the guys in the second car goes inside the shack, reappearing with a
disco ball which he promptly hangs on a hook midway across the LEDs. The music is
unstoppable at this point. You find yourself swaying unconsciously, toes gently
floating in the sand that is now sparkled with flowing dots of purples, yellows, reds
and blues. Your mind has long departed and all that you’re left with are your senses.
You can’t feel them, but they’re present. A cave-human rendered back to the state of
survival.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but your ears start picking up on the hushed tones
of broken morning-after voices. You lift an eye open. You’re lying on your belly on a
twin-sized mattress with two bodies either side of you. The first guy you met from last
night catches your eye. A big grin appears across his face as he makes his way over
with an upside-down lighter in his hand. As he approaches, he bends over and
removes a small white pouch from his pocket. Crouched down to your level, he lightly
taps two bumps on the bottom of the lighter - a nostril’s width apart - proceeding to
snort through both nasal cavities in one rehearsed movement. He looks at you and
indicates the pouch. You nod and follow suit. There’s a light rush to your head, but
nothing too harsh and you get up slowly, rubbing the sand off the corners of your
eyes. You go over to a little bench by the fireside, still warmed by the embers, and ask
the person sitting there if you could bum a smoke. Conversing softly over some
acoustic psychedelic folk songs, you ask to show them a new band they might like.
It’s a similar mood; genres don’t really mean anything anymore. As they hand you the
phone, you can’t help but laugh when you notice the time. It’s 7 AM and the day’s
already well underway.

You find out that the shack is a bit of a free-spirited commune, with no rent and no
real legal restrictions. That’s all you need to know. A week or two passes, the rhythm
of life flowing indiscriminately from night to day to night without any interactions
with responsibility. You still reckon you’re being responsible though. You haven’t
taken any substance foreign to you and you haven’t been hungover either. Only half-a-
pack to a pack a day. That’s good. Tonight a new batch comes in. They’re a little
younger and one of them has some seriously disturbed eyes. Interesting. As the night
begins to settle, the easy-going conversations morph into more serious questioning on
the role of life. Human nature: good or evil. You used to think about these things, but
that was before the bliss of ignorance anchored itself to your fibre. “It’s a wonder that
we’ll ever figure some things out” vibrates freely out of the radio.

“I love that line.”

“The coke or the Skegess one.”

Laughter fills the space, but you’ve never found yourself funny and now you don’t
feel compelled to hide that insecurity behind a fake chuckle.

“Both, but seriously, it really gets you thinking. Like we probably won’t figure out
most things, ever. Just like the good versus bad shit.”

You haven’t tried in weeks, but your body forces out a sudden retort. As if it was
making one last stand. One final attempt to drag you back into the realm of
rationalisation, of thought. The thought isn’t a rosy one though, and your fate is
sealed.

“I don’t know if we will, but I do know what human nature is. Human nature is
neither good nor evil. It’s seeking pain. We all seek pain, even when we don’t realise
it. Take your athletes, your married couples, your druggos, your alcoholics, your
priests, your dead-end office jobs, your social media influencers…whatever it is we
do, we spend most of our time seeking pain. We then fill ourselves with guilt, and
hope we can fix things before death. But really, it’s just how much discomfort can you
absorb. All our systems have artificial, human-invented suffering baked into them.
Unnecessary suffering albeit, but it’s a symptom of who we are, not active design.”

“Well in that case let’s crack out the cathinones then and try to rewire that brain.”

You allow a fake laugh and nod a “go on then.” Lately, you’ve almost felt sober and
when you’re sober it all hurts. Moving way too fast in the brain, even with the
numbing brought on by the booze-weed-coke-md-nicotine that usually had nursed you
into a manageable state. Your body’s looking for a new paradigm. Welcome to failing
addiction you think to yourself. You take a line. You take a second. It’s cut with
something because you’re sent into an immediate spiral. Before the hallucinations can
kick in you find yourself lying on the floor. As your eyes roll back, you finally accept
your fate. For the first time in your life, you just let it go.

Empty
The fourth dimension.

Welcome.

We do not live in time. We do not live in society. We do not live in rules. We do not
live in this planet. These are all constraints. They are all restrictions that do not adhere
to us. No, we live in the spaces between time. We live in the boundaries drawn by the
expanding universes. Those are the only boundaries we know. The limit of yesterday,
today and tomorrow, do not exist to us. The limit of cities, countries, and this planet,
do not exist to us. We experience it all. So welcome to the rest of time, to the infinite
cycles of this wonderful dimension, more brightly coloured than the three you’ve been
familiar with. In a few moments you will open your eyes, but you will not see them as
before. You will see us. We are time.

Like crickets in your mind, more consistent and definitely louder but not audible
sound, your brain is vibrating to the frequencies of constant excess. Like a chorus
flanger fluctuating through never-ending Shepard tones, your reality seems caught in a
state of infinite loops. Your eyelids flicker open and you see their motion being traced,
little bubbles of air holding each moment along their trajectory. The white around you
focuses into a slightly blurred image, as if wearing glasses with the wrong
prescription. You make out the ends of a hospital bed that is marked with its
pragmatic hearse-like handlebar to facilitate transport. You begin to feel the bed
you’re on with it’s stillness making you nauseous. You start tasting the bitter flavour
of stomach acid lining your tongue. You can even smell the staleness of the
disinfected floors, but you still can’t hear. Your heart rate is picking up. What the fuck
just happened? Where are you? And, why can’t you hear? You move over your left
hand, shrugging it off the bed, and displacing a medical cart. A tray falls on the
ground and you feel it hit the floor. Still no sound. You focus on your vision; why is
the wall formed of twirling off-white spirals? Seriously, they’re forming in the shapes
that resemble the 2003 ubisoft logo, with those spiral-eye looking things. So, let’s
recap. You’re lying on a hospital bed. No one is there. You don’t remember how you
got there. You can’t hear anything. And, you’re seeing some intense visual tricks
being played on your eyes. Well, despite this stressful situation, there’s an odd beauty
to this moment. An overdose of problems, that had numbed you for years, finally had
spilled out of you. As if each one was pulled out of your guts and through the pores in
your skin. All the problems are there in front of you. You can see them, touch them,
taste them, smell them. There’s too many of them, but they’re out in front now.
There’s nothing you can do. You must resign. You must accept that this moment will
always be like this, and it’s just as good a moment as any to be in.

In another dimension, maybe 3 or 4 minutes away, a nurse appears having been

alerted by the muffled clanging of metal on rubber. They notice your eyes are opened
and look at you with a reassured (albeit tired) look. Moving across the bed and
bending over to retrieve the tray, they ask, “are you ok?” You couldn’t see the lips
move, but you could see the waves oscillating leisurely alongside the maniac photons
of white light. You knew they were coming and you felt them reach you: “Are you
ok?” You can hear again. You are ok, so you nod. The problems that lay in front of
you are ok. They’re not solvable now and they don’t need to be. The nurse proceeds to
call the doctor. They come in and tell you how they saved you from severe brain
damage induced by heart failure. They’re a hero. They do give you a bit of a telling-
off at the end, but not as condescending or reproachful as expected. They say they’ll
have to keep you for another 3 hours. You’re not too sure how long that should feel
like, so you thank the doctor and lay there content. The doctor leaves. It’s just you and
the spirals again. They really are beautiful.

Back outside the hospital, you feel different. The usual sensations have wired
themselves back together and you feel like what most would describe as normal. At
least you think so, but having been especially very-not-sober the last few weeks you
kind of forgot what it felt like. It feels a little strange. It feels as if nothing has
changed, that your escapade from reality was but a blip in time. You can start
remembering emotions such as guilt and anger. You start remembering the codes you
follow and the ones you wanted to. You start remembering that although nothing
matters, it doesn’t mean you should make it worse. You still feel a little floaty and
hover towards what you make out as a bus-stop. You’re not sure where you’re going
again. But you don’t have your phone, and for once you don’t care. You don’t need it.
You could use some cash to get somewhere, but you have time. You get on the bus
and head to the back. It’s fairly empty and you get a window seat with no neighbour.
The bus driver doesn’t look back. They seem fine with it. You’re going to need to
collect your thoughts eventually. And you’re going to need to connect with another
human over them eventually, too. But you have time. You allow common trees to
paint your sky with bright greens and occasional white flurries, while purple hortensia
and crimson amaryllis populate the lower realms of the window. The bus comes to a
break in the human-formed scenery, entering a wilder patch of tall grass and wild
berry bushes swaying in a continuous wave, carrying the bus across like a crowd.
They drop you gently onto the open beach. The ocean comes into abrupt sight,
wedged between the pounded rocks and the finite atmosphere. You’re in awe of how
it just drops off. You look out but you can see no coast, no tower, no mountain. You
know the world curves around, but from here it seems like it drops into the infinity of
space. You wonder what it would feel like to drop off, to lose all sense of gravity. You
imagine a blackhole just beyond the horizon. You imagine getting sucked across time
and moving at the same speed as the trapped light and matter that make up everything
around you.

The bus stops by a lonesome bench and poll. You slide out of the chair, putting up two
fingers to the driver as a thanks for their part in moving you along, and hop off the bus
onto the black pavement. The asphalt’s really burning your feet. You look down. Ah,
it’s because you’re still wearing the thin hospital slippers. You probably didn’t have
any shoes on your way to the hospital anyways. You take a few steps and get to the
lighter sand. It’s not quite as hot and rather impossible to walk on with slippers, so
you flick them off and leave them neatly by the curb; they could be useful later. The
sand feels calming, but a little unstable. You get to the water-smoothed sand,
anchoring your feet firmly into an original casing with the most perfect fit. A
venturous wave wanders past your heel, its salty lips licking your skin, with the final
surviving bubbles depositing a milky-yellow froth that evaporates within seconds
from the top of your foot. You look out at the ocean. You begin to think. You see the
time moving in the sun. You hear the space on the other side. All that empty space
way out there, not so empty as you remember the planets, the stars, the galaxies…also
the satellites. You think of the not-so-empty empty space around the horizon, with its
rivers, its plants and its animals. You think of all the bacteria filling each corner of
your empty space. You wonder if the space feels the same way you do. 99% of the
atoms that make up all of it, and you, are empty. The last 1% seems to feel like an
irritable itch that can never quite leave, like an out-of-line pen on the desk of an
obsessive-compulsive individual. Or maybe the universe is 1% full. Maybe that’s your
way back. Perhaps that tiny little percent of stuff is the most beautiful accident of all.

Awake
You were late but you arrived. You’re walking with purpose right now. You didn’t
sleep great last night on the sand, but well enough to know that you’re craving water
and a direction. You’ve got the beginnings of an entry plan drawn up: find an internet
café, login to an online messenger, find out which mate of yours is near enough to
pick you up, and that’s enough for now. Do internet cafés still exist in 2021? The
remote nature of the beachside resort tells you that a dodgy connection and subsequent
need for tourists to access local wifi are as good a chance you’ll have as any to find a
place to get online. Sizing up the resort from the roadside, you make out no more than
a few rows of narrow streets either side of the main road you’re now entering from. It
shouldn’t be too difficult to locate all the commercial buildings and make your way on
to the next town, just in case. You’ve got time though. It couldn’t be later than nine in
the morning. Ok maybe ten but still, you’ve got time. You make your way
strategically down the main street, scanning busier exits. Most crossroads are
populated by none to two people. It’s quiet and calm. You find that rather pleasing,
even though it doesn’t make your odds of success any higher. Reaching a fourth
intersection, a wider crosswalk indicates a busier turn. Having only passed a thin
bakery and frail supermarket, you figure it’s time to explore the back streets and take a
left. The sun strikes as the shades of the building make way to an uphill road winding
around a one-story church, barely distinguishable from the surrounding sandy houses.
The only marker is a small black spire and a stained oval window.

You lost faith in most things at a fairly young age. All the religions offered up on the
menu seemed comical at best. Why would you believe in the universe being directed
by human-like beings? All the books were written by humans after all. Isn’t it
narcissistic of us to imagine we have a say in how this universe was formed? Aren’t
we but simple observers? The church isn’t especially pretty, but it’s nicer than the
other buildings. Most magnificent architecture can be found in religious temples. At
least religions have that going for them. You guess that’s where the purposes of
religion and art intertwine in a way. Both set out to express gratitude through sharing.
One is far less constrained and has mostly played a role in stopping, not initiating
wars. Your reflexion leads you to a fork in the path and a plaza opens up on the side
adjacent to the church. Tin chairs and pop-up tables are scattered around the square,
indicating the presence of restaurants. A middle-aged couple with two younger kids
are hard at work trying to wrestle mostly uneaten plates into their children’s mouths.
An older women is contemplating the church as she sips on her coffee. You enjoy
watching the people-watchers. There’s a certain serenity that washes over you when
you see someone else doing absolutely nothing other than observing. She catches your
eye and offers a genuine smile. You nod timidly and walk over to the café. The
entrance is a rounded hole in the beige wall, with a small glass screen on the side to
shield the visible bar from the hot light. You enter and are greeted by the person
behind the counter - most likely the owner. There are no more than five stools perched
by the wooden bar, with only space for a lonesome table in the corner opposite what
must be a toilet. You don’t make out any computers, but there’s a password scribbled
in chalk on a black slate leaned against the beer taps. Slight change in plan. You’re
going to have to concoct a story for the well-fed man behind the counter. As you sit
down on the stool, you notice he’s sporting a confused grimace on his face. It has been
two or three days since you left the hospital, and you’ve only consumed discarded
bread and fountain water. You didn’t have any shelter, so your skin has begun peeling
and more importantly is quite dusty. A year ago, your baby-faced features would’ve
simply indicated a lack of hygiene, but now the dirt on your head suggests that you
clearly have been without permanent lodging for a while. He probably thinks you’re
homeless, so what approach to take?

“Hi, how are you?” Original as ever.

“Good thanks. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if it would be possible to get a coffee, and borrow a phone. I lost my
friends this morning and I need a phone call.”

“I think we have coffee here.”

The grimace turns into a smile as your youthful anxiety betrays any evil intentions. He
doesn’t seem too surprised that you don’t have a phone though, and offers his, picking
it out of his pocket and unlocking it.

“Thank you! Do you mind if I connect to facebook? Just to get the number.”

“Sure thing. And here’s your coffee.”

You thank him again and get online. It’s probably been a week at least since you
hunched over in front of a screen. The artificial light seems too bright for the dim
room and your head is already rushing with an uncomfortable sensation, akin to chain-
smoking a whole pack of cigarettes. You realise that you hadn’t been stressed lately
quite simply because you hadn’t been glued to a screen. There had been no vibrations
in your pocket, beckoning your attention for a valueless conversation. There had been
no pinging with notification banners that used to direct your mood. No jealousy nor
anticipation, and maybe you actually felt good. You decide to hurry the process in
order to abandon the phone as soon as possible. A quick scan online reveals that you
have a friend 15 miles east. More of an acquaintance, but on good enough terms to
help you out. Plus their feed indicates they’re on holiday. You give them a call and
they pick up. Success. They’ll come by in an hour to pick you up. You hand the phone
back to its owner, explaining you’ll be around for another hour before you can pay.
He doesn’t seem fussed and offers you a food menu. You take your order, the one
vegetarian dish, and make your way to the terrace. Even without having any shelter
for a while, you actually feel more comfortable outside. The natural light more
pleasing to your eyes; the song of the wind more gentle than the AC on your ears.

A moment passes. You’re feeling healthier but tired. Your body hadn’t processed
actual minerals and vitamins in a while, so most of your energy is labouring in your
digestive tract. You lean back and let the early-afternoon warmth sooth you to sleep.
Your friend makes their arrival known with a slap on the back.

“It’s been a good minute.”

“Yeah it has. How are you? Thanks for coming to pick me up.”

“No worries. I should be the one asking how you are though. You look in a state.
What the hell you been up to?”

“Ugh. Long story, but essentially been homeless for the last month.”

Your friend laughs. It doesn’t surprise them given the contexts in which you’ve met
before. Most times they’d seen you, you were completely intoxicated and dancing
terribly in grimy clubs. You order another coffee for the both of you and expand on
your recent adventures. Time to be vulnerable and rip off the bandage; there’s no
point in lying to them or yourself anyhow. They spend most of the story laughing and
interjecting some sarcastic oh-how-shockings and how-unlike-yous. The hospital is a
bit trickier to get out of your system. Your throat dries up. You croak your way
through the first sentence before pausing for a sip. Their smiling eyes fade into a more
concerned posture, and they don’t interrupt. When you’re done, they grab your
shoulder, shaking it comfortingly. They’re glad you’re still alive. You both laugh.
They’ll bring you back to theirs, just a 10 minute drive away. They’re headed back
home tomorrow actually and there’s plenty of room in the car. You hadn’t thought
that far ahead. What will you do when you get back? Who knows, but it’s not a
problem for this moment. It’s a lovely day. You can still hear the ocean mixing with
the cicadas, and you’ve got good company. Your friend pays the bill, you promise to
get them back, and both meander by the church. They parked further uphill, so you
enjoy a stroll through the quiet streets. Everyone’s probably having their afternoon
nap by this point. The town is all yours.

Back in the car your friend offers a cigarette. You haven’t smoked since your little
overdose and don’t feel compelled to. You politely decline. Maybe you’ll pick them
up again later, and that’s ok, but for now you’re simply satisfied allowing your lunch
to regenerate your blood. The car makes its way out of town. As you exit, you pass the
ocean road, picking up speed with your tangled hair dancing to the melody of the wind
through the open windows. The car turns inland and the road finds its path between
rocky hills. Up and down you go, and open-pit mind makes its appearance in the
distance. It’s carved out the side of a mountain. You’re reminded that someone once
said we discover to exploit for our benefit. The word exploit seems misplaced. We
should discover for peace of mind. It’s a calming thought that we could build our
species into an empathetic society, where days are measured by senses and not hours
of productivity. You’re reminded of fights you’ve engaged in, trying to solve our
clashes with the environment through new technologies. How many more mountains
will we have to slay to create a new sustainable paradigm? How much more material
will we cultivate without ever replenishing? There’s hope. There’s hope in the simpler
life, but first it comes with one responsibility: to escape human narcissism, to escape
your own narcissism. When society’s finished patting itself on the back for thinking
about changing, things might change. The unwritten laws we live by will change. Lose
your self-importance and breathe. You smile. You’re minuscule, just like that tiny 1%.
The wind picks up and you get lost in the sun-soaked bushes atop crumbling stones.

The next day you’re on the road again. Dimensions, measured in hours, pass. A
familiar entry shows its face next to the highway signpost. You’ve returned to the city.
Your friend pulls up on the sidewalk near your apartment block. They say there’s a
party later tonight in one of those lakeside mansions. You’re not in a mood to party
per se, but you’d rather not be alone tonight. You make a mental note of the address,
thank them with a clumsy embrace over the gear stick, and make your way to the
block. You had left spare keys in the mailbox. They’re still there. Your apartment is
the way you left it. A faint smell of gastric acid still present, concentrating near the
wide-open bathroom door. Dusk has begun settling by the time you finish cleaning.
You’ve done enough for now, and you allow yourself a beer and cigarette on the
balcony - the first ones you’ve had in a long time. Looking out over the city, you
enjoy the dancing lights dispersed like a cluster of fireflies over the amorphous blob of
buildings, reflecting lazily off the lake. Memories of an ancient belief pass through
your mind. You remember that time when you loved; that time when you would
imagine your lover safely asleep in the arms of the city shelter. You think of all the
thousands of homes you can see. So many different stories unfolding at different
speeds, but all sharing this moment in this dimension. You finish your beer, grab your
bike, and make your way to the lakeside.

It’s two in the morning, but you haven’t gotten yourself into your usual state of
inebriety. You’re enjoying the company of close friends you hadn’t seen in a month.
The laughing and dancing are good enough. A DJ is present, having fun for a change.
Even a bartender has been hired. You never really knew that you wanted to be a bar
tender. But, seeing them surrounded by vulnerable people you realise how connecting
they are. They get to spread joy and are repaid in musical delight. Could be a good
path to keep in mind for a later time. You feel a natural urge to relieve yourself, so
you make your way over to the house. It’s a four-storey house, pool protruding a-top
the first one, with the top three stacked in a semi-circular staircase. Golden rims on the
flowery railings blatantly call out the wealth exuding out of the place. The lot of land
is in a prime location, only minutes from the city, yet completely isolated by a variety
of pine trees, lilacs, and the odd palm. The lawn all around the house is large enough
to host a small stadium crowd. You appreciate the space and welcoming hosts, but
can’t fully reconcile the pleasance of the moment with the screaming
overconsumption. Normally you’d drown those thoughts in liquor. Tonight they don’t
bother you as much though. In through sliding glass doors and find the nearest group
chomping on cigars. You ask for directions to the lavatory and make it as the pressure
on your bladder was just becoming uncomfortable. Rinsing your hands, you catch
yourself in a mirror. You’re hit at once; a shock to your system. You look good.
That’s not a thought that had crossed your mind before. Not bad. You make your way
back to the grass and join the group bouncing by the speakers. A new person has
joined. They’re dancing particularly energetically, arms and legs moving vigorously in
opposing directions. They’re barely on beat and that makes you smile. They turn
around and you catch their eyes. Then there it is. That face again. The tender smile
under nostalgic eyes. A shy look holds your eyes in theirs. Violins begin playing
inside your chest. A feeling begins to emerge from the depths of a space long
forgotten. You suddenly realise; you can still feel.

You hadn’t met before, but that memory from the balcony was no longer a figment of
your mind. The belief was no longer a memory; it was back. Your eyes still locked,
you both move closer, trying to keep in time with a clumsy flailing walk until you’re
side by side. There’s no need for small talk in this moment. The music takes the lead
as you’re connected through the sound. Your ears guiding every move, instinct the
only director. You’re a little scared. It’s the good kind of scared. It’s the “I have no
control over what comes next” scared, the “I have to roll the dice” scared. You feel a
connection, but nothing’s ever certain. Should you back away? You can’t. This
moment holds you here. The moment tells you that you belong with it. So you stay.
The song reaches a quieter bridge, relieving the sweaty bodies. They look at you.
“I feel like we’ve met before.”

“I don’t know if we’ve met before, but you’re really cute.”

Oh god. That was a terrible line. Are they going to step away? To your surprise they
laugh. That laugh is all you hear, an ugly cackle more beautiful than any symphony
ever written. It instantly permeates from them to you. You’re both closer, their arm
wrapped around yours. A “how original” and “I don’t care” simultaneously are
exhaled between two smiles, and you kiss. The invisible connection materialises at the
very edge of your lips. Your cracked skin losing itself in the microscopic crevices of
theirs. “A une passante” forms in your mind, “la douceur qui fascine et le plaisir qui
tue. Un eclair…” That flash is the moment you want to last forever. You remember
that it will last forever. This moment can never be done-over. This space in time can
not be erased or rerecorded. You entangle yourselves closer. The odour of cigarettes
and perfume escape and all you’re left with is the beautiful scent of dopamine and
norepinephrine; the drugs you’d been trying to replace. You continue dancing with
your bodies close. The sky is recapturing some of its blueness as Orion puts down his
bow. The crowd has thinned out and the few remaining mouths are yawning. They
catch your hand to pull you away.

“Let me show you something.”

You follow them through a small aperture in a lilac bush. You pause to notice the
flowers are still blossoming. You didn’t think it was the season, but you definitely
won’t complain. The garden gives way to a sycamore forest above dry dirt and
crackling branches underfoot. They bring you to the edge by the lake. You lay down
on the narrow sandy beach, both tired and smiling. Eyes closed, you embrace. The sky
is getting lighter. It won’t be long until sunrise. They fall asleep by your side, but
you’re not tired. You contemplate the beauty of it all. The 1975s playing in your mind
with the melody “hey kids we’re all just the same, oh what a shame, and how I’d like
to go to Paris again.” Some addictions are happier than others. Some beliefs are
happier than others. You know you’ll move through them. You know that love can
play its game with you again. You’re ready for it. You take out your phone and play
Iris. Like in the hospital room, you can feel all your problems getting pulled out in
front of you. “When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I
am.” This time you begin to see answers. The sun rising over the lake reveals ripples
from the nearby ducks forming spirals. It’s just you and the spirals again. You begin
scribbling words in the sand.

Who will have the time

To read more than a poem
With three simple lines

Well you definitely aren’t any good at haikus, but you’re definitely still alive. The
water sways up and down, the lake’s cymbals drowning out any thought. Thank god
there isn’t more than this. How many people had you met in the past year? How many
new stories? How many intertwining lives? How many new songs shone into your
life? What if you could love again? The long strong cello notes are seeping into your
gut. The fluttering violins make one with the butterflies you hadn’t felt, or allowed
yourself to feel, since you last met betrayal. You remember the thoughts that you’d
make, lying in your bed. You remember seven years old thinking of what they’d say
when you die. You remember the newspaper headlines crying out your demise. You
remember fearing leaving this life. You learned again to love life. Good, because a life
without love, god that’s just insane. The sun’s rising. The light goes from marine blue
to a cloudy grey. The sun’s rising. You’re connected to life. Life is perfect. This
moment in time is perfect just like the others. Actual strings sound from your phone
and the words move through invisible mediums into your mind:

“But if I be wrong, if I be right

Let me be here with you”