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JOJE 100 NÄCHTE (D.Y.O.N REMIX)

Again, I walk in the front.  
Ready. Always ready. But never ready.

I feel strange, questioning myself.  
Why are all these people around me, so many people, so early in the morning, why are all these people on the street?

Everywhere around me, everywhere is melancholy, suspicion, tiredness, collapsed faces.

Everywhere are worn-out clothes, sweaters sticking out of raincoats, or jackets, old jackets that see through.  
Everywhere are shopping bags under armpits, hanging on fingers, rolled together, or carrying something inside—maybe the breakfast, the lunch, wrapped in toilet paper, aluminum foil, or folders… printouts. All these inedible things!

Everywhere, comfort shoes or tight boots or just sandals dragged on the pavement.

Everywhere, past every street, every lane, every boulevard, every road, every pass, every park, every square, every corner, every crossing, every traffic light—everywhere, everything seems to surround me, like ghost among ghost among ghost, and everywhere, everything goes not back to where it was.

Among all this tension, among all this fear, among all this hurry, among all this complex yet lifeless motion, there is no purpose, no direction, no line that can be distinguished.

But I believe we just have to follow the people, right?  
Just follow them, and soon enough I will reach the border of this city, maybe get on an expressway, some road toward the suburbs, toward openness, but that’s far beyond reality, far beyond the stretch of the current time and life.

I am surprised, finding by surprise that I am always lost.  
People always disappear, dissolve. That’s what they all want—to blink out of existence before anyone notices they've failed.  
But it’s not delusion—they think if they keep moving fast enough, they won’t feel the ground vanish.

So people are lost in the traffic, in the struggle, there is no failure, not victory, no triumph.

Facing all this, all that, all this and all that on the horizon—  
all these buildings, condos, apartments, parking lots, shopping malls, gas stations, construction sites built to rise high but abandoned halfway, or never finished, or never meant to be finished—facing that, our body inside has lost its vigor, has become fragile, has become incomplete.

Are those people scared of going home? Going back to where they are from?  
Because the walls are closer than the people, and the people at least move, even if nowhere.  
Because if you’re moving, you’re not dead yet.

These aren’t coats. They’re exoskeletons.  
These aren’t bags. They’re umbilical cords.  
These aren’t shoes. They’re shackles back to whatever job, whatever room, whatever role, whatever mask, whatever lie they still have to tell themselves.

They’re all doing the same math: maybe today will be different.  
And you’re not supposed to notice it doesn’t add up.

But no, I know.  
It doesn’t add up.

Above, the light is still veiled, the sky gray, oppressive, perhaps never to become a true day.

(Inspired by Krasenahorkai)

Above

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