Category: Monday

The Rain.

The rain lashes down with the cruelty of a world that has sunk its teeth into my dreams. My fingers tremble as I open the matchbox, the cardboard box wet and soft as old sorrow. The fire refuses to cooperate, it resists, as if it understands that each flame swallows a piece of my soul. I scrape the match along the box, but it breaks like a promise that never came true. One more try. The rain laughs at me as I desperately try. Each spark that lights and immediately goes out is an ode to my perseverance, a macabre dance of light and water. The pleasure lies not in the ease, but in the fight – the fight against the elements, against my own desire that hunts me down like a dog.

0

Side.

There are gestures in life that seem so small, so insignificant, that they barely stir the dust on the scales of existence. And yet—and yet—they evoke a deeper truth. A truth that whispers: you could have done something useful with your life. Take the gentle touch of the side of your keyboard. A gesture that balances on the delicate edge of tenderness, boredom, and total cognitive implosion. There you are. The cursor blinks like a sarcastic metronome on the blank document. The world is burning outside. Emails are piling up like garbage bags after a strike. But you, you decide to touch the side of your keyboard. Not the keys. Not the space bar. No. The piece of plastic next to it. That smooth, matte wasteland that registers no input and knows no gratitude. Your finger rests on it like a pianist taking a break—but without talent, audience, or music.

0

Experience.

Let me start by saying this: if you’re looking for an adventurous escape from the ordinary, this three-day experience offers a surprising twist on your routine. No booking required, no overly Instagrammable locations, just you, a bunch of dedicated professionals in balaclavas, and a dark sense of loss of control. The journey begins with a classic heist setting, somewhere between “unexpected” and “unwanted.” Within seconds, you’re in a cozy, slightly claustrophobic space — the trunk of a car. The smell of old carpet, motor oil, and desperation gives you an authentic experience that you won’t find in a brochure. And while the space to move around is limited, that’s part of the charm: minimalism in its purest form. What makes this three-hour journey truly special is the combination of sensory stimulation and introspective silence. Every bump in the road is a reminder that you’re alive — at least for now. You hear the car humming, snatches of traffic noise, the occasional bend that makes you rethink your spine. Call it a meditative reset, but without freedom of choice or a yoga mat. Arriving at your destination (somewhere Google Maps wisely steers clear), you are poetically abandoned. The kidnappers, with an eye for detail and punctuality, leave by bus, which is a testament to their commitment to sustainability. No unnecessary violence, no big drama — just you, the moon, and a vast landscape that calls out for existential questions.

0

Square.

…and so she moves through rooms that always seem square, even when the walls buckle under social expectations and the floor wobbles with implicit intentions; she, whose way of seeing was never meant to be a rejection but a precision, a kind of moral obligation to clarity, for how can one orient oneself when everything is constantly moving except the gravity of logic? She does not wait for a feeling, she waits for a pattern, a confirmation, a repetition, something that makes sense, like a series of footsteps that echo at precise intervals on a smooth floor — there lies safety, and therefore truth, and therefore reality. The others, always on the move, speak in language that oscillates between meaning and gesture, as if their words were more sound than structure, and while they laugh at the wrong moment and their eyes slide along invisible points of meaning, she tries to understand by writing things down, drawing them, making diagrams in which their capriciousness can be captured in forms that at least adhere to their own logic. And so the square is created — a mental space, not really hard or cold, but not fluid either — with rounded corners that allow what is flexible to be captured, if only for a moment, for observation, for processing, for an attempt at contact that relies not on feeling but on decoding.

0

Reality.

There’s a comforting thought that connects us all: maybe nothing exists at all. Not you. Not me. Not this essay. The universe itself? Most likely a botched export from a failed simulation project, running on an overheated quantum server in the basement of a bored superintelligence. In this essay, which exists somewhere between a hallucination and a PowerPoint presentation, we deny reality the way a cat denies gravity: with flair and utter disinterest.

0

Empty.

Ode to an Empty Mailbox O faithful box of rust and hope, you wait, you suffer, you hold your tongue. No card, no letter, not a single word—only advertising, unheard. Your flap, it clenches, but remains polite, though your insides are orphaned. Your mail is empty, your fate is silent—a monument to man's loss and will. Yet you remain standing, year in, year out, a border guard without a sound. You dream of mail, perhaps a card... but oh, that seems like something from another year.'

0

Water meter.

Ballad of the Water Meter In the darkness under stair tread six, where no one looks, no person, no gès, there lives a turntable, wet with regret, that whispers: “You forget me again today, policy.” No sunbeam, no warm laugh, only drops in a plastic collar. He counts, he counts, faithfully for years, but receives no card, flower or mourning. His ticks are your daily song, but you do not hear him. What sorrow. Yet he keeps measuring, without complaining—until one day the pipes ask: “Where is he, our water lord?” But then he is silent. He no longer measures.

0

Pleasure.

An Exercise in Self-Deception After the End of Days Forget everything you think you know about games, about companionship, about meaning. Playing hide-and-seek alone isn’t just a companionless pastime—it’s an existential dance on the grave of human connection. It’s the last cry of entertainment in a world where no one comes looking anymore. It’s play, but in a place where the word “play” means nothing. Picture this: the sky is permanently gray, the internet has been dead for months, and the mailman hasn’t come in for 132 days. The city is empty. The streets are overgrown. The supermarkets smell faintly of rotting canned goods and once-frozen lasagnas. And you? You’re counting to twenty out loud in a deserted living room, complete with cracked picture frames and the soft hum of a broken refrigerator.

0

Proudly powered by WordPress

Up ↑

en_USEnglish
nl_NLNederlands en_USEnglish