“Just cleaned up for you Sir.”Why you said that? How I am supposed to stay in this room now. I don´t want to know that just recently, minutes ago a team of women rallied through here and turned everything upside down with your wimp up their arse. I want to keep the illusion of an untouched live, a virgin life, created only for my needs, perfection.
“This room doesn´t exist , didn´t and will not, do you understand! And don’t call me Sir!!!”
What a show… a mix of jealousness and greed – they lift backpacking into their real world of we-travel-empty-handed, which is more commitment to freedom than writing about on your fancy blog, eat-and-stay-for-free digital nomading… and jealousness and greed – because we pay the price and they fucking don’t and I don’t wanna pay for their trip down the road of individualism – the escapism you sow, and white trash on the street we have back home, I told them to find work and now they sit in front of my bungalow, shit in front of my well deserved holiday I worked so hard for… who gives a shit, seriously. Doesn’t have man other problems than a couple of bums in dirty thumbs or is it just another rage of capitalism – always punks.Still feel odd about white people begging in Asia… but now removing the concept of borders, I don’t give a shit.
Waiting for my ice coffee at a market somewhere in Cambodia… two men on a motorbike pass by, in between them a crocodile, head in a rice bag, tail waving in the wind… a soldier with his AK47 on his bag spoting my ink, nearly drives into a food stall, everyone laughing, not because of the AK47… and finally I forget my change – who hinks about change when it comes to crocodiles and soldiers – and the seller is chasing after me to hand over. This is my Cambodia. I hope it will survive me.
On same days, at night, when roads turn into blades, crossing at junctions into a Cambodian version of Russian roulette, when I shouldn´t steer any vehicle anymore, when I ride home on my loyal not scarless motorbike, only in my head visions of accidents taking place, real time, or just what will happen turning around the handlebars now, hearing the plastic cracking, metal clawing into the tarseal, my flesh skinned down to battered bones – and I drive faster to feel more comfortable.
We are all humans.
And neither we are.
We are less than who we are but more than who we created to be.
We will never be.
Always stay behind.
Behind of us.
Waiting for the big man.
The big breakthrough justifying anything we shed.
We are our only concern.
We are our only concern.