Today, I still felt feverish ill and the gray and cold day, wrapped me in a cold soft breath. I am out of breath every move I make, while my eyes sting every twenty minutes from exhaustion. A great stress must have released the tension in my body, which kept me running for so long. Its release was a signal for every germ residing in my system, to ravish unrestrained with free hand.
With joy in my heart, I went to pick up Charlene, who was arriving at Tegel Airport, from Frankfurt. I explored the S-Bahn and the U-8 line. The trains are clean and look brand new, with East-European design seats, and Western advertisements running on the silent dual screen TVs. I love to ride on the S-bahn above ground and view the city’s limits, to drive by the deserted looking Tempelhof Airport’s landing and take-off tracks, the living quarters with their ‘Höfe,’ the retracted window frames and the plastered facades.
Already, I am paving my path from my home at Mainzerstrasse to the U-Bahnhof Boddinstrasse, along the Nigerian internet and telephone center and the Penny Markt.
Too tired to leave home, I sleep for an hour in the early evening and write for a little, but my energy level is low, and my concentration weak.
A Slow Awakening
When I arrived at the bridge of beauty, a young girl in immaculate white garment stood suddenly before me. As she held her eyes wide open, pointed at my lips that shivered at her sight, she spoke and instructed me of the five rules of obligations I would meet in life. These she summed up, before I could pass and tread the path of beauty before me, into the city of love.
She spoke softly and with love, while I looked into her green, enflaming eyes, covered by shallow crystals of ice, and encircled by her dark whiskers of elonged shadows.
With every word that reached her lips, I read the words before they reached my ear. But I started to feel sleepy, getting more and more tired very quickly. My eye lids felt suddenly so heavy, that I could no longer stay awake, and I entered the deepest, sweetest sleep I ever knew.
Welcome to Europe, the place where you enter a restaurant to taste the refinements of its cuisine, to visit for the finesses of its culture, but where you leave the cuisine and theatres smelling like you’ve been rolling around in the dirt with the pigs, having lain and rotten with the trash for three days. The air of cheap tobacco with a quick mask of branded chique, painted by the millions marketing budgets that keep the old man of the tobacco industry in its sadle in Europe, that retarded playground for decadent and silenced consumers.