Nice chatting in Quicksand [nederlands]
That i thought i was awake, but i was still in bed. That my body was turning, on its own, around and around, faster and faster, and i thought i was going to get tangled in the sheet, but that turned out to be like a catapult because suddenly i was launched and ended up two meters further, in a corner of my bedroom, where i was stuck with my face against the wall and my feet about a meter above the skirting board, for a moment, only to be pulled back into bed with a crash.
That's exactly what my presence feels like here in Klotestad. If there had been city walls, i would now be hanging there, crushed until i fell. Centrifuged, launched, stuck and dropped again over and over again.
Aren't i a city person then? I can't last even two weeks in the countryside. Should i try another city? Klotestad is now as big as the entire country used to be, and even then it was never much better elsewhere. I went from Klotestad to Klotestad, and i was never at home anywhere.
Is it getting light yet?
Anonymous counterparts are lying too much and too heavily on the road surface, without wanting to whine about the number of kilometers traveled, but would you mind holding me for a moment? After all, it's nice to be standing here on the roadside, with your cardboard 'Klotestad', but do you also know that there is no way back? Once in Klotestad, every step counts triple. The peristalsis of the city draws every step inward. Deeper and deeper it traps you in treacherous quicksand, and the more you struggle the more joyful the catch.
Are you thinking of moving to Ouchestshire, Invitrovillage, Dusthole, Cheesedon? You can sing songs about it into your immensely sad eternity, but it won't help you.
Is your desire for change already barking in the depths? Or do you only lose sleep over the unsatisfactory lovemaking of the stranger? Your presence will not tolerate delay, and we all need to hurry so that you reap the benefits.
"We just wanted to help you!"
Your scream bounces the psalms from wall to wall, in the hell of your pretended innocence, the entire professional approach fits around your wounds like a glove. Sometimes your head seems too big for all that distressing thinking, and you cry out for our unconditional attention. You would prefer to purr in everyone's guts, and you have been doing your best for so long, so long you have been bleating your damn face on TV and the newspapers are joining in and "He has remained such a normal guy." and it is always Christmas with a chocolate letter while it's gingerbread chatting with the ordinary citizens who very ordinary smell blood.
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