coming close to the essence of my personality as a middle-earth ent in the midst of a hurried world, is what i tell people when i respond to their message 3 months later

a lingering personal connection with the lampposts i have biked or walked into over the years. how are they doing? do they still think about me?

starting a project to appreciate the small concerns everyone said they’d be irrelevant with enough time. well guess what, time has passed, and i get you, mesopotamian brick baker, it absolutely sucks they didnt buy your bricks for the temple.

ik stap uit amsterdam centraal aan de ijzijde, hef mijn handen op, en roep tegen het water en mezelf ‘welkom in europa jongen!’

wat diagnoseer je een man die alles al heeft

i told them that sometimes when the train or metro goes through a tunnel i imagine i am traveling in a spaceship in the distant future and how this sparks a sense of wonder deep within me but i realised based off the reactions that this was not the right social setting for such revelations

at least i now know how it is to be alive in the first quarter of the twenty-first century

high above the busy and bustling city, a little man lived in a high tower.
made up of a collection of odd objects and half finished constructions, the tower stood alone high in the sky.
each day the little man would wake up, and ask himself ‘well, should we make a little day out of it?’

he’d shuffle through the various tower compartments until he reached a contraption of ropes attached to a twig basket.
the little man pulled the ropes, and the basket went down into the bustling city until the little man could not see it anymore.
he’d keep pulling until the basket came back up again, now filled with an assortment of items.
a loaf of bread, a tub of spicy hummus, a few vegetables, and a little bag of candies.

the man picked up the basket, and then move to the couch.
he’d lay on the couch on his back. after a while, he would then rotate and lay on his side.
and at the appropriate time, lay on his other side. and then over again.

after the day had gone by, the little man would shuffle to his little balcony.
he’d take in the beautiful view of the bustling city, and as the sun set, he’d sing a little song.
“take care of your hippo campus. don’t let it drown in cortisol”
and then, the little man would forget the rest of the song and stare into the distance in peace.

cluelessly wandering about in a misty forest inhabited with abstract nouns

peace be with you
and with me
and my broken brain
and all those things i wanted to do
and how i thought things should have been
peace be

the parable of the good samaritan that was overwhelmed by all the potholes on the way to jericho but had to prioritise their own mental health and walked past another poor person laying on the street

like a colourful bird making a little nest in a burnt out tire on a desolate rainy junkyard

not sure if it was the best thing to do but i decided to lean into my white man confidence

the personality type of a butterfly in a botanical garden

fortunately our children will be too busy with the collapse of human civilisation to be concerning themselves with all this psychoanalysis of their troubles and how it’s all their parents fault