Absurdia.Net

We went earlier to see the AIDAwhatsitcalled harbored here in Reykjavík. Such an overgrown amass of metal and glass that was a truly impressive sight to behold. A lot of Icelanders were there too, to take photos and jawdrop in silent envy. But seriously, who would want to be on a ship like that for fifteen days, or more? It’s so much like a luxury concentration camp. From when you wake up to when you go retire to go to sleep, your daily routes and routines are traced by marketing experts, that know exactly what you will want to drink and eat and where you will want to sit and when and what kind of dresses you will have brought with you in your suitcases. You will bath surrounded by fake palms and bamboo groves and then listen to the country music act – very likely German despite the fancy cowboy attire – at one of the eleven available themed bars, while sipping your Mojito, battling with paper umbrella miniatures to get to the straw. And then you’ll dine in one of the seven restaurants, all covered in mirrors and other vomit-inducing materials in case of seasickness. I mean, seven restaurants and eleven bars? More than in the city of Reykjavík itself. But of course, I don’t like bars here, so that’s not a point in favor. And a casino and sport centers and at least a cinema screen – but I suspect there are more – and god knows what else. When and where can you be free just to be by yourself, instead of roaming the decks like a brainwashed monkey, eager to spend money on anything? When can you really enjoy the sea and its wild moods and the life in the middle of nowhere? I felt fed up even before being aboard. To think there are people with so little imagination as to save for years to be in a prison like that, with the well-offs that are even less imaginative than they are, ha.

I‘m losing track of the time. Time flows so easily. I look at the clock on the wall and it’s like looking into a crazy man’s inner space. I can’t follow. It’s light all day, without interruptions. Faces are not submerged by tidal shadows. I’m afraid I’ll get used to monotony of colors and shades. Wind blows now and then and I am cold all the time. The body still remembers the suffocating taste fo past summers, the scorching sun, the smell of dusky breeze. And I’m changing shape quickly enough to know that I’m no longer a girl. I’m a relic that’s waiting for dust and the beauty of age to gather on its recesses and edges. But no dust can gather. I clean and wash, and it’s ugly dirt only that gathers and needs to be washed away, no dust or beauty or oxide coating.
Birds are confused. They sing all night. The see light and feel light and perceive light with all their senses. So they get younger and younger and sing to acknowledge their existence. I would like to sing as a proof I’m still alive, but I’m no bird.