
Is it possible that we are a mere caricature
of our possibilities

Is it possible that we are a mere caricature
of our possibilities

To get into you
I have to push buttons
far away from the entrance
I wonder what that is about

Sometimes I come across
a door into you
all out of place
not at all you
an afterthought
placed by who
wanted to help

Today
my thoughts were trapt
inside me
I had to live with them

I saw you hiding
in yourself
I saw no lock
from the outside
or handle
to try
maybe your open
or locked from the inside
I will never know

There is so much color in the city
but in my mind
looking back
I see grey
except
when I met you
my wall
standing still in front of you
I do remember
your color

I have no real attachment to celebrating the new year. When I was young, it was exciting to buy fireworks and search for leftovers long into the night. Later, I had work where I had to work on those days, and as an anarchist, I can’t help but see the relativism of all these celebrations. And I don’t know why that one day a year is chosen as some kind of turning point, mainly because most of the time, maybe all of the time, real changes happen on entirely arbitrary days. All these traditions come from your surroundings and are fed and seen mostly uncritically, the same traditions that make us anxious about foreigners and let us see women as something other than men, to name just two of the more nasty ones. Traditions are fascinating when you read about them in a history book.
A part of relativizing your own (made-up) culture is realizing that what is normal for you is not normal for others.

From down here
those guardrails look nice
luckily
down here
I can't fall far

I love standing in the middle of a crossroad
when it is quiet

In life you sometimes feel like
falling
with no ground
underneath
you don’t tumble
just endlessly
it always seems
you pick up
where it ended
somewhere in thin air
some last time

A wall staying together
bounded by our time
and some imagination

We move in particular ways
just so we can ignore
what is just
out of the frame

Sometimes you don’t know what lifts you up
other times you don’t know who you lift up
most of the time we lift nothing

When I feel
looking back
I open a window
to inside
where memories linger
to let some fresh air in
hoping to be at least
reused

There are so many windows to look through
my window

I have to go somewhere
one of two ways
one more light with reminders
one more dark
hidden reminders
remembering
such a human thing
no matter where
you go