It reflects me. Walls of consistent matter against which you only
but cause no damage. 
Disrupting the void is not an option. 
Everything we know lies between these predetermined lines, these safekeepers. Ideally, nobody would ever know the Other existed. The fact that we do annoys us, we despise them. 
Concrete is not fair, but I am addicted to its presence. I slice my tongue open on its surface as I kiss it with conviction. The taste is sandy, dry and presumably unhealthy.

Eating a bad tomato is unhealthy too. 

I listen to it breathe, it talks to me, from deep within the entity’s presence. The sound is muffled, but if you listen hard enough, you can hear it. 
It is telling me it will follow me, wherever I go. 
I cannot do anything but accept. 
After all, it has already decapitated me. 



After a stress-filled week, there might be much to write about, to ponder & to mesmerise. While all these things are fortes of mine, I am currently thinking about a package I received this week. The contents did not surprise me, given the fact that I was the one who sent the package to myself almost three months ago in Birmingham (it contained two jackets, a pair of white skinny trousers and two books, totalling 3 kilos of weight I didn’t want to carry around any more at the time). When it arrived, the white trousers were missing, presumably taken by a poor postal worker who thought he could fit in them. 
Before trying to sell me a credit card I didn’t need, the clerk at the post office assured me it would only take 6 days to reach its destination. Post office clerks make bad prophets, I tell you. It is a bit fascinating that the package travelled a distance of 418 kilometres in 79 days, or 5,2 kilometres per day, or 0,22 kilometres an hour. What travels at 0,22km/h? According to Google, it’s something in Japanese and it doesn’t look pretty…
I could have walked faster from Birmingham to Ghent with my package in hand. Not that I could though, I was too busy with an internship that didn’t give me any work and for which I thought I’d be getting work soon. Oh, the sadness! I’m looking for another internship now, gives me something to do. I’ve applied for one in Berlin, could be something different. 

As I am about to end the first year of my MA degree in photography, I am half wondering if I shouldn’t have done it in one year instead of two. Then I’d have been finished right now and we could have moved to Timbuktu for all we cared. Now there is just some obligations to be fulfilled before I can ask Wikipedia to tell me where Timbuktu is. 
Well, it’s easy to predict in hindsight… Still, one more year to go now. At this speed, I’ll graduate when I’m 28. I remember a political party saying that everyone should work 45 years before they are entitled to retire. So I’d have to 73 for that to happen. And that’s if I don’t take a year off or get unemployed after next year, just work work work work. Fun.
Do you see why I will never save up for my retirement? (if not, you are forgetting what I once said about all that heroin I said I’d be taking when I turn 60). 


The Present Future

Inner storms burst out. A side of my body screams against the other side, blaming its passivity, its lack of action. But the pot calls the kettle black and ignores all proof. 
Welcome to the desert of procrastination. In this world, everything is based on the distant Tomorrow. In the now, all we do is wait, hoping we can take next bus, but hooligans have removed the timetable from the bus stop stand, so there is no way of knowing when the next one will come. Luckily, the weather is fairly mild, almost neutral, not hot or cold, not pleasant or unpleasant, so we don’t mind to stand still around here. Tomorrow’s another day. 
I would welcome a car crashing into me now. On the condition that I survive, though (I know, there’s always fineprint…). Out here in the desert, there aren’t that many cars though. And even if we do get to see one, it’s never a malicious enough one. No pedestrians are killed in the desert, it’s the safest place to be. 
It’s quiet out here. Too quiet. 

Fat, sweaty men

 When cycling home last night from a reception, my route was diverted unexpectedly. Blocking the way were what one would call "hooligan scum" being contained by a couple of hundred police officers in trooper uniforms. I had overheard someone at the reception mentioning the home team’s exceptionally convincing victory, so I was a bit puzzled why these "fans" would want to make trouble with the police. What reasons did they have for being angry? I had obviously no intention of biking through these not so gay-friendly individuals (I admit, I am profiling, but prove me wrong hooligans! Come kiss me on my arse and then maybe I will change my mind!). 
A police officer who was on his way to his group of colleagues, passed me by and I asked him why these people were doing what they did, considering their team’s victory and all. Shouldn’t they be celebrating rather than seeking to get beaten in the face with a batong? (It occurred to me that my mom’s car, which I am currently using now that she’s on holiday, was parked not that far away from these hooligans – I say "was parked", because I cannot be sure that it still is there today – if it is gone, I will simply deny to my mom that she ever gave her car to me, maybe I’ll even convince her that she’s never even had a car to begin with… brilliant plan!). The policeman told me had no idea what these people were being aggressive about; I sympathised with the guy who had to sacrifice his Saturday evening for a bunch of sweaty, fat drunkards. I wished him well after he told me an alternative route where I wouldn’t get beer, stones and/or spit thrown at me. While it may have been a less eventful route, I am sure we all come to a point in our lives where we just don’t want to be confronted with morons too much, even if it means taking a twenty minute detour. 
I did ponder what drove these football fans though, not that my answer is conclusive, but it could be a starting point for my new book "Going Rogue – Football Style!" which will be on sale everywhere if ever I can finish it. Maybe the victory their eleven men just accomplished gave them the misguided idea that they were now somehow invulnerable, invincible even. The confrontation with the police made them realise that they actually were NOT invincible, which gave them a boo-boo and consequently made them angry. Makes sense, right? 
I also wondered what would have happened if there had been no police there. There wouldn’t have been anyone to incite the hooligans to get the abovementioned boo-boo that made them angry, so maybe they wouldn’t have become aggressive (but then we might get confronted with a lot more deaths of these hooligans, when they, holding the belief that they are now invincible, jump off a tall building believing they can fly… if only, right?!). 
The psyche of the modern day hooligan is a complicated one but the fact remains that none of these men have what it takes to become the next Top Model… So TTYN, bitches!

A 21st Century Prophet

‘Hello, this is the Help Line for Those without Anyone to Talk To.’
‘Hi, I was just wondering if you could help me with something.’
‘It’s what I’m here for, or at least that’s the idea.’
‘So yeah, I just found out I’m this prophet…
‘You what?’
‘Well, I had a vision and the old Norse god Loki came to me, telling me that he was the one who gave me fire, like Prometheus to the Greeks, but that he also rejoiced in seeing myself get burnt by it.’ 
‘Yeah, and then he told me that I am actually a prophet, he contacted me so that I could prepare humanity for Ragnarök.’
‘Ragnarök, you know, the end of the world, after which every human on earth will die except for two, a man and a woman, who will then continue to repopulate the earth. He told me that I am going to be that surviving man.’
‘Sir, I think…’
‘Please! I don’t know who else to talk to, I’m really worried, because I know what I saw, I’m not mad!’
‘Nobody’s saying that you are, but you need to calm down.’
‘But how can I? Loki asked me to prepare the human race for this epic battle, but I think the Gods are a bit out of touch with reality… I mean, how am I supposed to convince people of what I saw?’
‘I don’t really know sir, most people who call here have either lost their keys somewhere or want to jump in front of a train. The number of prophets we get is really not that much.’
‘You see, I am worried about this vision, because I know deep-down in my heart that it was real. And Loki warned me that if I failed in my divine mission, that I would be eternally punished in the afterlife, so you know… I have to do something.’
‘Sir, I’m just looking up Loki on Wikipedia and I don’t think you have any reason to believe what he says. He’s supposed to be locked up, you know, so there’s no chance he could have just left his prison to talk to someone like you.’
‘No, that’s the thing see, I knew he was locked up, so I asked him, and he told me that Odin released him to come and talk to me, so that he could restore his sacred position among Gods.’
‘Sure he did…’
‘No, I’m telling you! He even showed me video proof on his iPhone!’
‘Sir, I don’t think you’re a prophet!’
‘I know! That’s the thing. How do I tell people in the twenty-first century that I am actually the real deal? I asked Loki if he had a Facebook so that he could vouch for me as the real thing, but he said Facebook wasn’t allowed in eternal life. I should try Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park in  London perhaps, at least then some people will listen.’
‘Hmmm, you’re a prank caller, aren’t you?’
‘NO! I swear I’m not! Listen, I tried to reason with Loki, telling him how impossible it would be without any real proof, but he just wouldn’t listen. It’s like the Gods are all still stuck in the Dark Ages!’ 
‘Maybe you should see a psychiatrist…’
‘Fuck you! I know you don’t believe me, but just make an effort, will you!?’ 
‘Sir, have you considered that you might actually not be a prophet?’
‘Of course I have. I don’t want to be a prophet! I mean, I don’t look forward to the end of the world and afterwards having to mate with a woman I don’t even know!’ 
‘Didn’t he tell you who the woman was going to be?’
‘Well, no, he didn’t! And anyway, I’m gay, so it’s all going to be bad…’
‘Sir, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Get a good night’s sleep and maybe it’ll all be over…’
‘That’s easy for you to say, you’ll be dead soon!’

(Really, who do you turn to if you are a prophet in this century? Who would believe you?)