Chapter VI: Homo Antiquus

...as of a creature belonging to the past, often having greater value.

Without Electricity

You listen to the noises of the Others

You observe the lives of the Others

You smell the recipes of the Others

You long for some sunlight warmth

Without electricity, you revoke the old ways

Noises the Others make bother you

You observe your life, your loneliness perhaps

You smell your unclean skin

You crave for some sunlight

Without electricity you are glad you can breathe 

at least

You then realize to where advancement has brought you, 

or not

Crap. You just don’t know how to spend your time

The one who will turn you on 

by turning on your electricity is about to arrive

The energy is eternal and lies within You

You twist the round on/off button wishing to have been fixed…

What is a human creature looking for when everything around them is “out of order”?

I feel OK. I am OK. My thoughts are electrifying

Energy flows like refreshing fire in my veins

I want to turn off the switch

Let myself free…

To find what I want without crutches

To live how I want without needing (or being needed)…

Chapter V: Homo Ecologicus

“Butterfly in a Jar” is about what we do against nature and then we try to “undo”. We devour the world we live in and then we either imitate it or mend it. It talks about endangered species, concrete cities and, ultimately about human beings and our success in distancing ourselves from who we really are. 

Butterfly in a Jar

“They still haven’t fixed those cracks on the pavement,” he whispered with a cunning smile.

 “Let’s start stuffing them with moss,” a romantic revolutionary proposed.

What a silly idea! He enjoys watching pedestrians stumbling on that broken pavement by his basement window. They teach him things. Like that little girl cautiously carrying a Mason jar with a golden tin lid. He could barely glimpse that royal blue Monarch in it. And then the girl trips over the crooked pavement and the jar falls from her inexperienced hands, making a crashing sound. Now what? Did the butterfly break free? He was waiting to hear the first cry of despair, although there was nothing to cry for, nothing organic at least. The butterfly didn’t go even near the edges of its freedom. It was trapped in its fakeness. It was never a real butterfly. It was just a pair of vibrant blue, paper wings attached to an electric string which made them flap so naturally, flutter so deceitfully, without ever getting tired.

He wished he could cast a spell and blow some life into that thing, although he knew how ironic that sounded! “How trapped are we into thinking that we can recreate the life we kill,” he said lifting his voice up and out of the basement. In the end, it is the bitterness illusions leave behind that opens our eyes to reality.