But sometimes I wonder which I prefer more: the certainty of an empty city on the brink of disintegration, or the streets full of colorful people all twisted to the tune of insecurity. It feels like a clear choice. You wake up in the morning, take a shower, finish your daily duties and responsibilities, and then meet your friends to relax with any of a list of mindless activities. Granted enough money and love, one should feel happy, but happiness is fleeting, and besides, money and love do not come easily. A lot of blood and guts for something you are much more likely to lose than keep. Moreover, there is this nagging feeling that once that buzzing sound strengthens, things develop in a different direction where one becomes nothing more than a static figurine on someone else’s chessboard. And then, of course, there is this thing about people turning into rocks…
…and as the Eye of Equal Opportunity sweeps the sky, the Iris shoves focus into its pores, that goat horn comes into clear view, and a deep raspy voice asks a question that echoes through the eternal corridors of Melancholia, “But where did it come from?”
Paper chess figurines float through the air over some dry bushes, burnt coal matches, rusty hacksaws and torn circus posters. From the railings, the smiling face of a Cyclops declares that the random viewer, whoever he might be, is in fact, Melancholia itself. An olive-colored rock stares at the poster, a guilty blue orchid stretching into a smile from one of its cracks. The special tactics unit slowly approaches the orchid, blazing guns choking their hands, and with due diligence reaches for the tender flower. Then, the wind wavers, the orchid shakes and the special tactics unit goes pale, then drops dead to the ground. As the evening approaches, the orchid grows ever more beautiful.
