Forget.

The moment your foot hits the bus step and you suddenly realize, with a bitter realization, that you’ve forgotten your public transport card can be broken down into a miniature chemical vortex of stress hormones: the sudden release of adrenaline, an increase in heart rate, and a brief but intense spike of cortisol that prepares your body for a reflex action or resignation. This small, biochemical orchestra of helplessness is a reminder that human existence is constantly interrupted by small, forgotten links in the chain of daily functioning. An event that seems trivial in itself, but spreads like a wave of discomfort that overwhelms all surrounding thoughts.

In contrast to this sudden internal tumult, the plastic crate of cucumbers in the supermarket stands, untouched by time or drama, nothing more than a collection of standardized green cylinders, arranged with geometric precision within their plastic casing. Each one contains a controlled amount of water and cellulose, encased in a protective, waxy skin, perfected by growers and distribution centers to achieve an outward uniformity that soothes the eye. The cucumbers lie there, without story, without memory, as objects of utility, prisoners of logistics and economy. The crate itself, chemically formed from polymers, knows no hurry and no lack of function; it is merely the carrier, a silent supporting player in a decor that repeats itself endlessly.

From an artistic perspective, we could see these two worlds as symbols of our relationship to order and arbitrariness: on the one hand, the sudden shock of personal powerlessness, captured in the forgetting of an essential piece of plastic, and on the other hand, the neat rows of cucumbers, a seemingly fixed calm, in which form and function merge in such a way that they hardly captivate the eye for more than a fraction of a second. The situation of the bus seems like an impression from an expressionist painting in which bright colours clash and run out in a chaos of movement, while the crate of cucumbers presents itself as a still life, unaffected and calm, where perspective seems to hardly exist and time stands still.

But when we try to draw a line of meaning between these worlds, we get caught in the apathy of realizing that there is nothing to connect them except the existence of both as parts of a life full of unpredictable moments and absurd patterns. The moment without a public transport card is an abrupt defect in the mechanism of your day, while the crate of cucumbers functions as an almost unshakable anchor of everydayness. Where the former suddenly tears you out of your thoughts, the latter offers an emotionless reminder of the meaningless repetition of consumption.

The conclusion is inescapable: there is no fundamental connection between forgetting a public transport card and a crate of cucumbers, except perhaps the human urge to find a story in everything we experience. This story fails gloriously here, like a bridge of thoughts that collapses halfway because it leads nowhere.