Ouroboros

Air in here is a lot like molasses – sticky, heavy and orange. The last one I’ve made up – I actually don’t know what the colour of it is. But I like to think that this would be it. We are looking at each other above the table. It’s a little bit like a duel, a little bit like negotiation. Somewhere on the peripheries of my vision I can see all of the empty bottles, dirty cups and broken straws. Sunlight – mercilessly – consumes all of the remains of the shadow and everything becomes even more visible, even more tangible - everything but us. We seem to be merely the outlines of the people, faded contours of something that exists only in potentia. I can’t feel my face but I know very well I am squinting and that it goes through series of nervous ticks and contortions – a fucking perpetum mobile of neuroticism. You, on the other hand, resemble a still nature and the longer I stare at you the more I feel as if I were struck by the sudden prosopagnosia. So there we are, at this table, in this heat, flooded with blinding and burning sun – with the seizing reality at my end and this agamic void at yours. I can’t really tell if your lips have moved but surely they must have because the air between us starts to tremble and then a sound of your voice wraps around my head and slithers its way into my ears.

- Fuck.

Probably not the most bright or eloquent commentary to this moment in time and space, but let’s be honest – probably the most fitting. Just to test myself I first nod and then lick my lips. With a relief I notice that your face regained some of the human-like features – a crooked smile becomes visible.

- What now? – I say because I know that one of us has to ask this question and it’s very important to be the one that asks, not the one that answers. Even before the last sound leaves my mouth, you know that you have lost.

- Fuck – You repeat and I couldn’t agree more. We exchange uncomfortable looks and then it seems almost as if the world around us would swallow itself – in a collateral damage we get dragged into the Ouroboros’ belly.

Air in here is a lot like molasses – sticky, heavy and orange…