Spoken of a new day, a Sunday whether there is light or dark, falling into a world well beyond our day-to-day love for routine.
After ten, people don’t go to church anymore, instead they gather in small groups of four or five – always one odd out – squeezing into small cafes in a town that sees its numbers half in winter, and treble during the tourist season.
Being a tourist, alas is avoiding responsibility for one’s character and inquisitiveness in a new world, and while the visitor centre keeps track of floods, dogs await their breakfast panting by the front door.
What the week brought about, I did what I always do when the absence of a world has drained my soul of too much energy through boredom: spending an hour in a bookshop scribbling the most fascinating titles on the palm of my left hand, then turn to people watching.
Despite all good measures, energy escapes through all pores, these chakras so skillfully portrayed in esoteric sketchbooks. Such instances turn into traumatic moments, when the world turns black/white into chromatic – let’s just pay a brief tribute to Nina Hagen’s Du hast den Farbfilm vergessen
A break in your utterly unambiguous routine helps to liberate your mind, and much of a new idea can form.
Of course I could give what your pattern desires. But have you chosen what you need, and who – as single entity – decides what is best?