© Robert Ciesla. All rights reserved.


As I return to the scene of a distant struggle, I sense and inhale sheer reverence. To my delight, a familiar tribe is present to share the moment with me. The air in the café is thick from their brain-chemistry, those particles leaking through their loose-moleculed, relaxed bodies, summoned by countless sacrifices for cool. They own many spaces and this is no exception.

My pronounced glasses are nothing compared to that pop-culture residue on their faces that blocks every angle on any vulnerability.

Most Traumatic and Vicious.

They were my sisters-in-arms in a teenager's struggle for love, figuring my whole persona out in a few weeks. To think some of them were briefly the center of my universe, then so abruptly removed by traveling, dancing, some type of reckless action. Once again, we share the now. For a change, I am the one with psychic powers.

There are reports of a hidden reptilian agenda in the new age-media. Modern prophets channeling information from galactic sources, powerful space-lizards projecting mind-control over most of mankind. Why not? Mind-control, marketing, profit, prophet. Facing these girls, I'm confronted by a force. Definitely one beyond words, choices and personal history.

They see me and surprisingly, their eyes emit a glow. They're now saying "I remember you - you're beneath us" in the body-language of lizards as I sit down. Better-groomed than last time with a hint of academics in some fine perfume, the partying stalled somewhat it seems. Surely the adventures never stopped completely?

Most of my friends shared the contempt of this group as well, the Krishna's, some activists and non-consumers, thus non-people. Once I let the guilt of manifesting my true self embrace me with its continent-sized palms, I let it chew my soul unrecognisable, amazed how my personality ever made it through. I must resist all temptation now, I reminded myself, to get angry. That would bring me to the lizards' wavelength.

They've established their fledgling command all over the cramped premesis, one of them having little parts of her defences waned with each of my glances. The girls order more drinks. And soon it's how far, how many times and how much.

I assume they rarely operated on the void inside all of us, leaving it mostly intact, instead laughing and fucking some of it off. Love, stolen at some specific point in our lives, was never returned. Not to any of us. It has since eluded us all, with the rest of our lives spent in sacrifice, absorbing elements of advertisements and the truths of cool-makers.

These women may have exposed the most clandestine of marketing directives: “Replace consumer's capacity for love with independent enforcing of the agenda“ And so they created the new average.

What is said is slowly being overcome by what is not. I didn't think much of eyes before. But these are so idle, so gone. Mirrors for a soul, surely an untouched speck in there, one without the weight of marketing?

Merit Them for Vanity.

Only some of them have aged. Those girls have witnessed attempted rapes in Kalkutta, robberies in Sweden, prostitution. The ones who over-did their credibility-run paid the price with flaccid skin, a withered frame and traces of disease. But to whom did they surrender their inborn human credibility?

Perhaps enchanted by a lizard CEO, these girls discovered travelling at 14 as little grungeheads hitchhiking in junkiemobiles all over Europe, later plunging into planes with their trendy handbags, walking and talking like the shampoo-commercials throughout their late adolescence, only to eventually succumb to 21st century hiphop on their luxury wide-screen TV. They're helpless pray for those operating from the dark side of the moon.

One of the girls displays a withdrawn animal rage, not unlike like years ago. Amphetamines, I suspect. What's next, who's there, let's go. The sick one is quiet, squeezing her teeth together with the strength of some industrial apparatus, distressed and angry. She is untended for. The only true casualty of the cool wars attending. Some competition must be still held among them. This is a life-long war.

I remember the sick girl drunk-dancing at some party, face etched with a hurt sneer, falling over repeatedly, so oblivious to humoring me. Her friend confided in me then, casually and in soft voice about their boyfriends watching illegal videos of homeless people getting dismembered to death.

It seems that only the most brutal and visceral experiences have flocked to these young women, all confused with the painkiller called love. Perhaps they evolved as a result, the duties of their adolesence finally fulfilled.

The shelter and the cameradarie of the troupe is still impressive. Alone, they have very little to say as those timid eyes turn away, pursuading one to feel equally small. With some of them, you might influence a quick smile.

The girls sip their ciders, some of them rotating cocktails. A flickering light is magnified in their eyes as they're joined by a cheerful, muscular gentleman of Mediterranian origin (who is a swift maker of spliffs). He amuses them greatly. Soon the eyes dim again, however little.

Meet Them in Victory.

Years apart, together we now welcome the next stage of our separation. My warhead of indifference towards what-is-expected will be launched in due time. There is a small, blossoming departure at hand and I feel like cherishing it for a moment. I smile at the barmaid who summons some playfulness in response.

- I haven't been here in ages, I say to her and spontaniously add, Ever felt like changing the channel?