Portfóliók

she kept on talking, blowing enormous bubbles of wafer-thin wisdom, that resonated from somewhere deep within his heart at first, then fell to pieces like ice crystals fall from the sky of tonight. one second lovely, the other split second, just a breath's width away, she became a pitiable, sunken, deprived and demented creature, hateful in every possible way. taking a convoluted approach to all things, she could be a philosopher only if she knew what the hell she was talking about. shame on this side of humanity, darkening and impaled on brighter ideas than their own black sun of a mind.

oh, the side hurts, he thinks, gulping down the sweetsmoke, chased closely by a heavy shot of some home-brew schnapps. the side hurts ever so slightly, he thinks and rolls away on a pre-filmed and canned action strip that boots him up to leave. on two wheels. slanted and terrified, guts bellowing quietly in his night of an abdomen.

then. just a street away a garden state awaits him, he, unbeknowst of the path that was etched in his mind long before this quickwipe with sweetsmoke and schnapps, rode on, feeling this is only temporary, and its a fun fair's bumper car roundabout, nothing more serious. oh please. a car speeding with 30mph is way fucking serious. he never minds, though, and honestly, this feeling, this state of mind fits him like an old cloak.

even at 15mph he feels like flying, skimming lightly on pitch-black tar, bumps and sidetracks not mattering.

so if i leave her, will i be better off, he mused faintly registering the bobbing shadows on the periphery of his vision, human beings going furtively about their weird little ways, if one cared enough to slow down and take a closer look. but for him, this is only décor, a mere scaffolding for a fantasy he crafted in long hours, wiped out by sweetsmoke, out of memories which felt alien yet closely related all the same. alone, thoughtful, the urban guerilla rides home.

cars. feels like racing, feels like in a slipstream swimming and going with the flow of high and low, huge, godlike, elderly beings glide by, illuminated with chemical glow, millions of tiny nerve-fibers flashing and crackling with electricity, long blue streaks, roar, bulls, lions, where am i, he thought, on his way home, the urban guerilla, riding his trustworthy 2x26" wheels, iron frame, bumps, raindrops, and the pitch-black tar and the halo-like, ghostly, otherwordly streams of lights reflected... slowing down, jayriding in sweetsmoke stupor, gearing up to take the hill, take the high bridge, then just spinning, speed again, how did it feel for her when she sped down the slopes not just two weeks ago. how it is brutal, primal joy, he thinks, the side hurts, maybe bad breathing rhythm, in-out-in-in-out-out-out, maybe adrenaile overload, maybe a heart attack. and the urban guerilla thinks, this might be it, this is it, i am not fucking going to make till home. so. tar, pitch-black.

dark shadows where trucks with wheels like elephants in a roll trudged deep within the screaming layers of conrete and sand, warping the curb. bright highlights on the other side of this microscopic geological ridge. go too dark, you die. go too bright, you die, but you go to heaven. he wonders why he's thinking only about the dark shadow, which keeps calling, grabbing at the front wheel, murmuring dark and beautiful secrets. just keep in the middle, man, don't lose yourself too easily. then road marks come on in like plateaus with their darklit and their brightlit sides.

a silent prayer, then. greens and reds dissolve into a fugitive plan, like a mouse between a herd of cats. and it's suburbia again, it's shantytown somewhere in this godforsaken piece of a land called a country, but home, sweetlit the heart, and lo and behold, he's smiling, because it is there he lives wherever he may ride, suburbia, and a life uncomplicated. and the urban guerilla notices he arrived home.

standing up, breathing out, and the sides don't hurt anymore, he notices. he made it. alive. only at one point started he wondering whether there has been an accident, and whether he's lying there in a pool of blood or in the throes of a heart attack, fatality spelled out like bells at a wedding; and he's a mere ghost, imagining life quite like as if in a hypnotic dream, and whither, then, dark pools of shadows, or bright highlights haloing on the dark of a million stars dead and a million more counting. but, it is just not that day, not yet.

stepping out of the cranky cage of the elevator, an item of engineering history itself, notices the absence of light, the timer having run its course cut off the sparks. so the air and the space around him suddenly fill with digitally-wrought nightmares, all too 5.1 surround, all too texeled to ridicule... with one touch of a palm, lifelines coiling like wisps of irish dawn mist, he lits up the staircase with digital candles, and suddenly all the zero-one, swirling in a sea of shapes best left undescribed, monsters fade into neighboring dimensions, he enters.

and the urban guerilla rider is home, with an idea of a line in his head: "she kept on talking, blowing enormous bubbles..."