For most part of my life I've carried a longing inside of me, which on rare occasion subsided when I felt a closeness to the nameless and faceless thing I assumed as the source of the wistful melancholy.
This longing took me to curious places in search of its origin. Maybe the answer is hidden on another continent, in the deserts or the oceans, maybe I can find it if I dive deep enough to the dark waters and smoky clubs. Maybe it will emerge to the surface if I stay in one place, totally silent and not moving at all, that's how you catch a fish and maybe a secret as well, right? Or maybe I have to be on the move constantly and end up to random places to increase the chances of our paths crossing. Maybe it's something that only shines in the dark and for those that never sleep. Or maybe it will wake up next to me when I don't know what happened last night or where I'm supposed to be, put its soft hands around me after years of desperation and dissolve into my morning coffee.
I never found the answer for good but I did stop searching for it. Instead of wandering, I took the road that was supposed to lead somewhere concrete: the career path with its exact rhythm and monotonous tasks - and holidays that I'm waiting so anxiously that I know this is not sustainable.
The first day of my two weeks' holiday arrives hectic. At the airport I search for last-minute cosmetics lacking from my suitcase, as if taking half an hour is too much packing time to take away from work. I chose responding to the oh-so-very-urgent e-mails over appreciating the precious break with my loved one and starting the holiday with a fresh mind. Something I will definitely regret on my deathbed.
Night cream, day cream, recovery cream, round little jars with all kinds of protections against the sun, aging and the inevitable results of stressful lifestyle eating away the hours of proper rest.
I admit it. I have become the person who thinks they need it all. Blueish crescents under my eyes? Check. Pale skin breaking out here and there? Check. Crow's feet pressing into the corners of my eyes? Check. First grey hair at 30? Oh dear, check.
But this is not the worrying part. I have weapons to fight the external signs of exhaustion. I will moisturize it to death, dye it, cover it, brush it, wash it, blend it, take pills for it, all those things money can buy.
Curing symptoms is a way to distract from the disease underneath. Or the fact that I don't know what the disease is, where it is located and how I can get rid of it.
Curing symptoms provides a certain pleasure, a way to keep myself too busy to think about the real problem, a state of ignorance and an illusion of progress.
Smoke and veils have always fascinated me, so it's no wonder the illusion of make up draws me in like a magnet. Among the anti-this and anti-that, I pick a tiny jar fitting to the palm of my hand. "Urban antidotes", it says. "Yes please", I respond.
After having satisfied my burning need for the day cream, I sit down to have a cup of coffee and try to remember how it was to just observe without judgement and not be so clouded by the stress and negativity of working life.
Airports are a curious combination of illness and remedy. You have the people cutting in line, overpriced food, hours wasted while waiting, confusion about connecting flights, airplane emissions, rude airport staff, stressed out passengers blaming the person behind the desk for their missed flight, lost suitcases and family members, eternal rush, horrible jobs and lost passion towards life. And you have the quick highs that offer a temporary relief, chocolate, alcohol, books, runways rising to the heavens and ending to a paradise, hell, somewhere very forgettable or maybe somewhere that might changes one's life completely.
I know I'm wrong when I'm searching for the cure without first knowing the disease. But there's just something so relieving about my little urban antidotes. I can hold it in my hand, it has a name and a list of its ingredients, it's so concrete against the feverish longing beating inside of me like a second heart.
Looking from the plane window the world below gets smaller and my perspective wider. Streets look like veins full of traffic blocking them like cholesterol, working places full of sweat and tears are just little grey spots I could crush with my thumb.
Urban antidote, something against this hectic world full of noise and pollution of many kinds. It kind of even sounds poetic to say that I've lived the urban life so long that I don't recognize a forest anymore. Only some odd trees here and there without the bigger picture.
The little jar, claiming to protect me against pollution, urban air and stress, is not much but it's enough to spark my curiosity to discover what else there is that could be called an antidote for the still nameless urban disease.