Scene

A long, winding highway. White line on the black road. Brown hues all around, undulating earth and evening Sun.

A car darts into the scene from the left. Something does not look right.
The scene shifts to the right, as if someone is looking to the right from the back seat of the car.

A man in black coat is running parallel to the car.
The car driver looks back, the man in coat reach the edge of the road, towards the car.
The man holds a long rod.

In the next 20 seconds, the driver screams as the man hits the windscreen with the rod.
Everything goes slow.

We enjoy the unequal mitosis of the glass. The driver loses control. The car skids to the left of the road.

In the next 20 seconds, we see a pool of red as the man kneels down, hit with a bullet on the stomach. Red splash on a white shirt.

The man does not want to live; the close-up of his face says. I don’t want to live.

Surprise. Blackness.

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Music video

I accidentally saw this video. A man jumps out of a plane mid-air and starts singing.

As a species, we enjoy speed. You can see the white line on the road running backwards, or streaks of dust on the road indicating how fast you drive, or the tree that appears all of a sudden on the left or right frame and whiz past the corner of the eye like a vertical line. Speed is a risk, we all know that. But we silently observe and experience it.

Did we arrive flying or running incredibly fast? Or did someone bring us to Earth so fast that we forgot from where we started the unknown and purposeless journey? This is like the speed destroying the memories like the wipe effect in movies. Or are we still flying too fast to an unknown destination? Is the speed still so high that we cannot observe what is speeding with us, or observe things slower than us?

Is there a frame of reference to observe how many and whom and all are travelling with us?

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New Year

New Year is just a construct. Today is the same as ever and there is no difference in me either.

I don’t know why I want to visit a European country like Italy, or sit facing a blueish lake reading the classics written so far.

The Sun is not out today, the chill in the air starts to crawl up the legs. A  squirrel darts across a terrace and then stops to gaze at a swaying green branch.

Where is this year’s greatest living author?

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