London

London is a place where nothing exciting happens. All hap and stance, any adventure finds root only in the mind. It is venue for an exhibition of humans who are now products. Their smiles vary according to ‘material’ persona; nothing outside the egotistical trait of the market exists. Everything and everyone is a product and everything and everyone is depicted according the flow of individual status, created by what one has, how they look, their car, how they feel about a place… Discussions persists of “but I”; “But I like London and fun in places like Soho: The external world is surrendered to a horse-view: The decay is fine; homeless people can surround the streets; who cares if every pathway leads to only the exchange of money for a product; it does not matter as long as individual market driven impulses are met. “I have fun paying insane amounts of money for alcohol [to drown my conscience]” succeeding a week of hard work, little pay, constant worthlessness and meaninglessness: The only meaning that exists a-prior to leisure time, is how the exchange of your finances materialise in the products you buy and which meaninglessness, brainless activity one will choose to drain the conscience that asks for more and yearns for empathy, wants to negate the empty material persona of a so called “cosmopolitan” city.
So what can we do but create an abstract work in our minds, isolated from a debauched world. Isn’t it even more real than what the ‘symbolic’ world has to offer ? It gets tiring to live in a place where one can predict the flow of the day to its T, the reactions of people, as though they are a bunch of walking memes. They dress the same, look the same, are im-patient with the doings of those who cannot find their ‘product’.

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