10 July 2016


Like the air of Berlin itself, I felt a detached sense of being. Being not in, but rather on top, of the city at all times. Like an insignificant drop of water sliding on the surface of a well-oiled sheet. At times I may have tried to engage with the built environment, but ended up lost in the starting point of my own mind. Like trying to swallow a cotton ball with a throat lined with a thick sheet of wool.

I didn’t even manage to gain a grip on the mind-blowing experience of the modernist architecture. Several times I intentionally sat on the gentle slopes of lawn areas, created to be ripe funnels for human consumption of the surrounding man-made post-war marvels. But I dared not consume the glazed visual spectacles not meant for me. However stagnate my physical body, something gently pushed me to keep the mental image of myself in motion. My eyes riding the curvilinear waves that crowned the shining yellow facades, perhaps between various planes hoping to catch a ray of sunlight. Reaching to shuffle apart the smooth black posts that only served to elongate the enclosed nature of the church next door. I imagined that when the rain hits these roofs it would sound like tiny metal studs hitting a plastic surface. Waking up from my daydream, I shook away the vague dialogue I had with the city, that the city had with me.

I stayed with a small woman with a small child. I remember flicking on and off the light switch in the bathroom as I got ready to jog off metaphorical cliffs. The child followed me around like a terrible hot water balloon. The woman’s energy was draining to the point that when I stepped foot in her flat, I felt like I was walking on a pool of dizzying mirrors that could crack and pinch me at any time.

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