It is a black man, who is offering me his seat in my local shawarma joint. In a world without reference point I am drawn back into my African home. He makes me cry, while I am flushing everything I ever believed in down the toilet.
I write letters in black and white between continents to people I might meet in uncertain pasts and futures. During the last years I have been writing similarly under different headings. It has become a habit loosing myself in between and inventing someone else. It might not all relate to white men and women in Africa but in a figurative sense. I am trying to exist not without colour but between comprehension.
I am not here...he is not me, I am not him. In the world of documented fiction there is no borderline between him and I. He is all hers in the eyes of eternity. Me is an oral dispute in the fragments of language. Words that have no direction, only circles in life. We will exist for no reason - at all.
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