August 12, 2003


The warmth of a child's touch so easily shatters the wariness for the cold comfort offered by an adult. So natural, so pure, there is no conditionality, no need for external interpretations, meanings, it is so self contained. It shows the futility of putting up a fight, there is nothing to fight for when the greatest one is already lost. What is left are a bunch of two penny jokers and the odd traveller waiting for the last bus that is to arrive any given time.

Initially it is a bit strange, you fight because that is the only thing you have known all your life, gradually the realisation dawns that the only absolution is in the defeat, you can choose any road you wish, it does not really matter when all roads lead to Rome. Between the start of the journey towards yet another promised destination and the deliverance of absolution in the ever-consistent failure, lies life in all its much-abused whorish glory. Relish.

There is only so much you can cry. After all, there is no Greek tragedy that is being written here, no sad tale of the forfeiture of childhood innocence. Some of the ilk are born wicked, covered in grime and filthy in the mind, so much non-special, so much non-pristine, so much stop-gap and so very discardable. Little kid misbehaved again today? Disown. Find fake smile, you are not allowed to cry, draw one one your face, mix in. We like you again now. Very well done!

When the last of the stolen logs ashen in the wake of its previous life as embers, the cold starts to gain in strength again. The city has closed out, doors and windows firmly shut, the light that falls from the windows have no useful warmth in them and there are limits to even a thief's best abilities. There is only so much one can steal. It is another cold winter's night, no more firewood in sight and I still don't have a home to go to.