I am writing in a café sipping an overpriced cappuccino. The bitter taste of espresso seems watered down compared to the acrid aftertaste of being raped in a dusky alleyway. I ponder the porn films being taped as I write about peace implementation in Bosnia, how many women are baring their bodies to foreign hands and greedy eyes as I debate ordering soy or almond milk. I think about people currently getting notified of their loved ones’ deaths and whether the air seems as thin and plentiful as it does to me or if their world seems to narrow as both their vision and minds tunnel into oblivion. I ponder the people exchanging electrified words and needy caresses with someone other than their spouse, the people who are sleeping while I’m awake and how many are dancing through the motions of desk-jobs, metro connections and social interactions. I think about the percentage of workers currently getting ogled at by their bosses and the few getting kidnapped while I’m getting worried about my GPA. Who is snorting cocaine, nipping at detoxifying lemon water or injecting steroids while I am sipping daintily on frothed milk? How many people are fucking and getting pregnant as I observe the queue at the register? How many of these people will get abortions and how many of them are actually in love?
How much of me is separated from the world?