lately, everything around me looks constructed. i don't mean the building in this city, the streets i zoom through on my bike, the constant reconfiguration of façades, renovations, replacements; not even the shop windows filled with products yelling at me to be freed from their miserable existence of not being bought. i mean people, their activities, the things they pursue.
everyone follows an agenda, filled with bookings up to the rim, everyone puts stone after stone into the walls of their homes, everyone plans their dives, then dives their plans, well prepared and stuffed with provisions, advise, best practises and adventure guidelines.
i've always thought that things happen, somehow, in a steady, continuous flow of action and reaction, like overlapping waves on a shoreline toppling over each other and rectracting into each others suction. i never thought that there is a single determined process, not a chain of things happening that would have relevance to my or anyone's life. things just happen out of each other, born rather than made, and the only reason why they become real is because they want to be.
but the more i look around and wonder why things are NOT happening, the more it looks to me like someone, somewhere, in some other context, has set all this up to be just like it is, purposefully, with a plan, and alongside some basic rules that quite solidly sink all hope of change like a concrete brick bound to our struggling feet.
dreams, for a while, seemed to be my escape route. the world behind closed eyes still has this wave over wave over wave character, but even there i see structures being easily identifiable as my wish and fear constructions, and not just life. and time passes over them as much as it does, in it's vicious cycle of day and night, over my wrinkling skin.
it all may be just a matter of perspective. see it the blue way, and you feel forced to follow the rules. see it the red way, and all you do is your own thing. see it any other way, mixed between these extremes, and you end up with this muddled, imperfect, i-want-more-than-i-ever-will-get reality under the cranes stretching into a midnight sun.