A
Midnight
Invitation
It's midnight. You're lying in bed. Tired. But your eyes have no intention of closing. You toss and turn a few times, showing your pillow who's the boss. Suddenly, you feel too warm, so you kick off the covers. Two seconds later, you're freezing like a moderately dramatic Disney princess. Time to wrap yourself up again. Then you strike the classic pose of someone refusing to sleep: lying on your back, staring at the ceiling as if it were a meaningful work of art. You wanted to avoid all this. You really tried. But here you are - sliding helplessly into childhood memories. Or you analyse your day like a self-proclaimed life coach. Maybe you’re just reflecting on the fact that the last slice of pizza might have been a tactical error. (Spoiler: it was.) Slowly, irritated resignation sets in. Your desperate attempt to pick up your phone for the twelfth time and find solace in the meaningless Reels/TikTok endless loop fails. Almost. Then you briefly consider reading a few more pages of that book you've been staring at for two weeks and are still at the beginning of. You push the thought away with a half-hearted excuse: reading would activate your brain, and of course we don't want that. Either because you'll struggle through it - or, God forbid, because it might actually get exciting. Suddenly, your pet becomes restless (if you don't have one, it's worse): you hear noises you can't identify, which is known to be the best setup for a spontaneous nervous breakdown. Instinctively, you turn on the night light. You get up, wearing your striped, crumpled pyjamas. Maybe they have Mickey Mouse on them, who knows. You are an adult with questionable judgement, after all. Or maybe you sleep without any clothes at all. That's fine too. But then you definitely have some emergency loungewear ready, handy for just such nocturnal expeditions into the unknown. Then you come into contact with the cold wooden floorboards, which feel like passive-aggressive ice cubes under your bare feet. Or maybe it’s a 1940s carpet, home to insects who’ve been living their best life until you discover them. But luckily, your fluffy slippers are right next to you. You enter the hallway. Slowly, because it's night and because you know that in horror films, nothing good happens when you suddenly hear noises. Before you even find the light switch, you see something strange lying on the floor through the dim light of a street lamp that somehow creeps through the window. Never in your life have you found a switch faster. Light on. Bright? Yes. Reassuring? Not even close. Because what you see looks like something straight out of an indie horror film (spoiler: it is exactly that. You are officially the main character in a mystery you never wanted to solve). There is a white envelope on the floor. Completely harmless. Or maybe not. Someone must have pushed it through the crack in the door. (I swear it wasn't me. Probably. Maybe. But if I did, I would have at least hired a postman - one of those who argues with me about midnight surcharge rates.) You pick up the envelope. And open it with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion and the unspoken hope that it's just empty and you can go back to bed. First impression: ‘Wow. Handwriting.’ And immediately, something tightens inside you. Because no one writes to you by hand. Not in 2025. Your friends send voice messages. Or memes. Everyone has your number. At least your email address. Some even have your Netflix password. And of course, everyone has at least three social media channels to annoy you. Second impression: the paper smells. And not like a musty filing cabinet. No, it smells like tobacco. Like lavender. Maybe an oat milk candle. Then a fiery bouquet of tuberose and outrageously confident jasmine. There’s blood orange in there too. And ginger. It smells like temptation. Like a literary Tinder date with your destiny. You turn the letter towards the light. And yes, there they are: tiny, shiny scent spots that have apparently decided to ruin your night with stylish emotional vandalism. And somehow, it makes you feel… appreciated. You haven't even read the letter yet, but you're already halfway in, halfway lost. A thought spreads, somewhere between madness and fascination. Finally, you read it. And the third impression hits you: ‘What?’ ‘Why me?’ ‘I hardly know her?’ ‘We just spoke yesterday?’ ‘When was the last time I saw her?’ You ask yourself all these things. And before you can answer even one of them, you’re already in. Mentally booked. Emotionally overcommitted. (No, you're not overreacting. And yes, that was the plan.) Moments later, you’re in an Uber. In your loungewear and fluffy slippers. You sigh. Again. You're slightly annoyed with yourself for not even saying goodbye to your pet. At the same time, you’re feeling overwhelmed, wondering why I invited you and why you agreed to come, and why you now feel the need to explain to the Uber driver that you weren't kicked out of your house. But the most painful part? One rogue sleep-evader has successfully hijacked your otherwise ordinary night. ...and… suddenly, the car stops. _______________ (PART 2 FOLLOWS) _______________
A Survival Memoir
Setting: A shared flat. Not just any shared flat, but a mysterious, fate-cursed combination of old-building charm and post-apocalyptic vintage chic. The walls: once white, now a soothing shade between nicotine yellow and existential grey. The hallway smells like a mixture of incense sticks, stale soy milk and emotional overload. The refrigerator probably harbours its own ecosystem, with ambitions. Someone has placed a houseplant in the hallway, which is now aggressively growing back. A small disclaimer: no one moves in here on purpose. You just wake up there one day. Protagonist: A reasonably normal person. Could be you. Or Cameron - someone who never said “yes”, but is still here. Plot: Last night there was a flat party. Cameron ended up there. Now it's 10:13 a.m., the time when you either get up or die inside. Cameron decides to combine the two. In a musty dressing gown, Cameron sneaks through the hallway, looking for coffee and a reason not to cry in the bathtub. He's standing right by the kitchen door: The Chronic Complainer. In his undershirt and with an aura like a weather report on Valium. His first official act: a sigh. Long. Deep. Dramatic. You can sense that he is rejecting the entire creation. Including Cameron. ‘The coffee machine is dripping. As usual. Probably your karma,’ he says, frowning at the table as if it had personally robbed him of his joy of life. Cameron smiles but doesn't answer. He drags himself further into the kitchen. Crumbs everywhere, half-empty coffee cups, a slice of cucumber on the floor. Toast with ketchup is stuck to the wall. Whether it's art or a cry for help is unclear. Then, footsteps. The Analyst enters. Cardigan down to his thighs. With a clicker in his hand. Yes, really. He has a clicker. And a laser pointer: ’Cameron, good you're awake,’ he says without looking up. ‘I've analysed your emotional curve from last night. There are a few spikes in self-doubt and a drastic decline in social engagement.’ Cameron blinks. ‘I just wanted a latte…’ ‘Come by later. I've prepared a template for your mood retrospective,‘ The Analyst said and left. Suddenly, The Loud One explodes in the kitchen, somewhere between a festival fairy and a fitness trainer with excess oxygen: ’Cameron, are we awake? Fancy some morning exercises?’ She hugs him. Or just crashes into him. It's hard to tell. ‘I breathed this morning! I feel so awesome! I could hug a wall!’ ‘Me too,’ Cameron mumbles accidentally. Then he leaves the kitchen with an empty cup. At the back of the hallway, voices chatter like a flock of birds high on caffeine: The Gossipers. ‘I heard Cameron was crying in the shower the other day.’ ‘Tuesday, I think. After the conversation with the energy vampire.’ ‘Or after the conversation with himself?’ Cameron: ‘I've only been here since yesterday,’ he mumbles again, losing himself in the meta-level of his existence. He continues on and enters the living room. ‘Hey... can you spare a minute?’ asks The Energy Vampire with the gentle voice of someone who is already emotionally sitting on your couch. Two hours later, Cameron sits there with a blank stare and a piece of paper full of his (The Energy Vampires) and his own problems. He needs some fresh air. He goes out onto the balcony. But he's not alone there either. There stands The Know-It-All. Cameron tries to normalise his heavy breathing - with an empty cup in his hand and problem sheet. The Know-It-All knows that Cameron is hungry: ‘Hunger is a social construct. In Bhutan, they only eat when the monk's dream allows them to. I was there once. I hiked barefoot.’ The balcony door opens. The coach steps out: ’Cameron... what is stopping you from living your highest self today?’ Cameron takes a quick sip from his empty cup. Then the door opens again. The Pseudo-Philosopher steps out, his eyes heavy with meaning, disapproval shadowing his face. He inhales deeply on a Montecristo and looks skyward - his gaze distant, contemplative, and yes, deeply so: ’If your inner child were crying today, would it be more like a wounded animal or a broken sound in an empty cathedral?’ he asked. Cameron sighs dramatically into his imaginary latte once more and disappears back into the flat. He just wants to go to his room. But in the hallway, The Trivial One runs towards him: ‘I opened the lid of the yoghurt, but it wasn't open properly. And that was kind of typical. You know how it is? When the yoghurt lid is like that... and then the wind...’ Cameron turns around and slowly backs away, completely out of breath, until he bumps into The One-Upper and steps on his foot: ‘Oh Cameron, your flip-flops look irresistible, but you should see the ones I bought the day before yesterday and even though I sleep in them, they still look like new!’ Cameron storms into his room. Leans against the closed door. And before he can close his eyes, he sees The Pragmatist standing next to his bed with a large sign: "Welcome to the House of Others."
The Tracking Cloud
...Imagine you have a superpower: the ability to leave this planet. Not too far, just far enough to see the entire human race as a hidden object nightmare. Of course, you bring a cosy blanket and maybe a pot of tea, coffee or even a bottle of red wine. Or something stronger (because, let's be honest, you won't be able to stand it for long sober). Actually, maybe a bag of popcorn too, just in case. Sweet, preferably, because the salty kind will be enough to make you sick just looking at it. Don't worry about the weight of the bottle or the pot. Or the bucket of popcorn. There's enough room on your little tracking cloud for you, your blanket and your escapist alcoholism. You curl up, take a sip and watch people race against their own insignificance. Beautiful. Tragic. Well, what do you see? OK. Maybe you see a lot: chaos, trapped between glossy facades. Trees, carefully planted for a clear conscience. Cars. Traffic jams. Factories that produce more waste than meaning. Smoke rising up to you, but swept away by the wind like an embarrassing thought. You breathe in. Fresh. At first glance. What else do you see? Billboards promising that you will be more beautiful, smarter and happier if you just consume them. Demonstrations, and next to them cafés where no one wonders what's actually going on. Influencers filming themselves with the sunset while they miss it. Politicians gesticulating with greater passion than if they were writing a better story (Yes, there are so many demands and promises that it makes your head spin). Lines on maps. Flags waving while children scream beneath them. Suits in safe countries using words like ‘necessary’ and 'defence'. And, of course, ‘solidarity’. If you narrow your eyes, you will see the cages. Rows of them. Not just made of metal, but of loss. Beings, uprooted, torn from what was once home. And then there are other cages - fleeting places of last moments. There is a lot of red. Bones in silence. Fur that no longer belongs to anyone. And somewhere in the rubble: a teddy bear. Dusty. Powerless. Misunderstood. You glance up briefly: planes in the sky with people who want to get away from something or get to something, usually both at the same time. Let's pause for a moment and acknowledge that there is definitely a lot to see. Perhaps too much. But we can't multitask on the clouds. Let's narrow it down. Let's observe the perpetrators. The perpetrators. They whisper through loudspeakers, on screens, in advertising slogans, in podcasts with overproduced jingles. They tell you what you need before you've even had time to question it yourself. ‘You want freedom? Then buy this contract.’ ‘You want love? Swipe right.’ ‘You want change? Vote for me.’ Some sell you abstract notions of survival, packaged in monthly subscriptions. Others sell you fear, because fear is simply easier to monetise. And it's always about getting you to move. Not forward. Just somehow. Frantic, distracted, busy enough not to have time to ask why. You watch people follow these perpetrators like moths to a flame, only to realise that it's an insecticide. A brief flutter, then a twitch, then a black dot in the statistics. And then you suddenly think - maybe that's all I have left: to sit. To watch. Not intervening, not correcting, not comforting. Just watching. And eating popcorn. You see patterns repeating themselves like a broken record in slow motion. Always the same thing: Power. Fear. Noise. Pretty words, ugly deeds. Hope evaporating somewhere between various campaigns and rocket launches. And yet, you keep watching. Your cloud carries you on. The world keeps turning. You take another breath. Fresh. Or maybe not. The bottle is empty. Even the popcorn bucket has left you and rolls leisurely away, over other patches of cloud, on its own journey into nothingness. Only you and the blanket are left. A small alliance against the great absurdity. But wait. Don't get up too quickly. We never talked about your superpower bringing you back. What are you asking right now: ‘Wait, what?!’ Or ‘What now?!’ Calm down first. Please! I have a quick piece of advice, if that’s okay: since you're not entirely sober right now, whether because of alcohol or because of what you saw down there, pull the blanket over your head. Forget everything. Maybe get some sleep. But when you wake up, you'll be sitting there again. Same cloud, same view. ...And then I ask myself: Are you really so naive as to believe that someone will come and save you? Or will you make a pact with your fate and make the best of it: wait for the sunrise with the hope that the light will improve your mood a little? Anyway, even if you try to suppress everything and your throat is parched from thirst as you desperately cling to the first rays of the sun, a question suddenly pops into your head when you realise the contrast between beauty and ugliness: Am I merely an observer? A silent perpetrator? A blind follower? A fighter in hiding? Or just someone who’s trying to survive…?