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On a billboard advert it’s written “we’re only as good influencers as our readers are”

I spot a womanreading not too far away reading from a shriveled newspaper, what type of in-fluencer is she?  

I pick up a newspaper myself, the first lines of an article say, “In the world today, we’re always asked what later we want to do in life.” 

I shuffle up the paper into a ball and for some reason put it in my pocket.

I feel like a drifter today, where am I going? I’ve still got no response from the commune concerning my extension of my resident permit, but it doesn’t weigh a dust on my present mood, I skipped above the oh should I have thought about this more?

I read or heard somewhere, don’t remember which one, that faith was this principle which could move mountains (not a metaphor, some artist did do a performance where he gathered a bunch of people to move a mountain of approximately one centimeter, not sure how he did that but true story). 

Some people could speak the most naive words but incarnate such faith that it would sound like they just dropped a bomb. I think there’s something related to presence to, or just an innate capacity for focus. Basically, it more about how you convey a message forwards, rather than what exactly you’re speaking about. I mean, most of us only have such amount of attention span anyways, so I guess we compensate that with being more sensitive to other aspects of one’s way of communicating. Like okay, how are you embodying what you just said? 

Goes pretty quick as to say it’s inarticulate, a mess, arf, never mind. 

Clear the way. 

A pink haired woman with blue eyes is sitting in front of me in the metro.

I’d give her a neat forty years of age, she has a thing on her shirt that holds it - the shirt - together. I look at it. There’s a distinctively recognisable face on it, a face who’s this woman who’s name just slipped out of my mind, ‘uhum’, I politely ask, “who .. is”  .. ah yes, Frida.. of course, stupid me.

Later at Malope cafe, I bump into Saru. Always a pleasure.

“how is everything going?” 

“Oh well, as it goes, stretching of time, the jolly woo’s and ha’s”

I didn’t actually respond that but what exactly do you want me to answer?

Social anxiety kicks in.

I skip off just as the bugs begin to crawl in from wall corners, I spotted them just in tom.

Did she spot something unusual in my eyes, was I too rigid?

I told her everything was okay. Never mind, that already does not exist anymore, I’m just dealing with a creation.

I hit the road and it’s raining, should’ve taken another jacket, oh well, it’ll be fine, “madam, any idea where I could fin…” oh okay, no problem, I’ll be fine, I’ll sort it out myself. 


A car stops and a woman with a purple dress drops out of the car, flirting with the floors. 

Something decadent about her walk pattern, I follow this woman, suspecting something very unfamiliar. I had nothing more interesting to do at the moment. 

Corner eyed tracing her footsteps lead me into a cavernous street, dim light, not a rat to be seen, even my shadows backed a bit for a second, I snap back vehemently at the cowards. She arrives at a pink door. Rings, looks around. 

The door opens very slowly, q couple seconds later a face leaks out from the aperture. 

I can’t see it’s feature properly. Oh no, fuck with me, the bugs are in again, from the corners, benieth the street lamps, argh, I have to leave just as she enters inside the building. 

I guess that’s it for the woman with a purple dress. 


Now was it purple or blue?


She need’s a name, i call her Frida. 


Dear Frida, 


Have you ever had you head stuck in an elevator? 


Do you think people are such involuntary escape routes, trajectories, alleys, crossroads that i should to many aspects give to an object of mind, or whispering tentacles of primordial forms wanting to banish the purity from moral castration?

For instance, did you realise that there’s a group of three folks for every block in the city?

How open are your eyes, Frida? 

One is sitting and the two others are standing. Now there forks, Frida, they’re on the wait of something that’ll never come but they’re their faith just might make it. 

They each have something to smoke, i’m sure, Frida, that you’ve come across groups like this in your hometown. 

They’re all looking at one’s phone now and consequently having an argument over the content which from our point of perspective, a Frida and an I coalesced in one object in time, is far too illusive. 

It’s just something they do that entertains the otherwise dull ambiance. We get used to fill the emptiness with distractions, so much that we don’t even know anymore what is  a distraction and what isn’t.

So of course they also have something to drink and it’s called commitment. If you’re going to wait for an illusive object to come you need to put commitment.


Oh dear Frida, I feel like I’ve known you forever. 

I’m scared of dying alone, in an elevator. 

But you don’t care, Frida, you’ve gone through the pink door chasing your own illusive objects. Now that I recall to that moment, before the bugs - oh those bugs - made their appearence, I didn’t think you were ignorant of my presence. Were you teasing or was it denial? That door, now that I think about it, it didn’t make any noise as it opened, nor did it when closing. Why? What kind of door keeps itself this silent? 

It would only seem logic if, Frida, you had something to hide from me, did you Freyda?

My my my, eternity could be a long time, and by your side, seeing your face, Frida, your face on the woman’s shirt in front of me in the metro, I know this would weigh. 

Now I remember you were smiling, but things got incoherent too quickly and when our eyes would cross something snapped, my jaw bone cracked, we landed in the marsh pit. 


Frida frida, is that why you walked away through the door? 


I’ve seen what went beyond that door, Frida. It was an initiation road, you took off the purple dress and wore your casual jeans and green shirt. 

Towards the tip of which mountain was it, Frida? 

Of joy, but which one, yours to choose, mine to lose, vice versa, mountain of freedom, Frida, but I still couldn’t remember your real name, nor what exactly your face looked like, but what did it matter? 

The rain had stopped falling, we’re at the tip of this mountain, don’t be too serious. 

I’m in the metro, it’s crowded and warm. The woman leaves. No more Frida. 


Now it’s my stop, I leave the metro. 

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