WILD STRAWBERRIES

I fight progress one human-tended supermarket counter at the time. I don’t mind the waiting, in fact, I like it, to a point, of course, and I enjoy the soft voice in the corner of my ear whispering, you do have time. I am, indeed, in no rush. I have been to many places and, sure, there is more to come, but for now, I have no reason to feel that I’m missing out, nor need to run after none. I welcome encounters of any nature that are worth of my time and attention. Like the finding of hidden tiny wild strawberries, the sweetest little things you will ever know, worth of immortality by the finest Scandinavian cellulose, along the way as you go. And here it is, by the queue that invites me to wait, that I dream. I dream of where I have been and how it could all be if any of it would have happened somehow differently. And the sound of my laugh wakes me up, for where would I ever want to be if not here. This is lovely, my place, my space, my thoughts. My warmth, my pain, the cold. For I own a Satie beating heart and, as it strikes on every key, my blood runs full of life and excitement, until I can almost taste, and smell, the metallic flavour making its way up and steaming out through my head and up into the air. Bunny shaped clouds floating above, I look at them and, once more, I dream. I dream of progress slowing down its pace, hanging on to life through the cable of the headphones attached to my mobil phone, I was modern once, while I keep on fighting, one groceries shop visit at the time, cherishing the memory of the sweet taste of wild tiny strawberries along the way.

Wild strawberries. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales (The red table & A scared black cat book adventure)

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