Towering behind a grass-covered amphitheatre, the remains of The Berlin Wall peer down over Mauer park’s latest wannabe pop stars strutting to an imaginry beat. Adorned with provocative art from all corners of the globe, the wall cuts through inner-city greenery like a concrete snake, history’s most revered division now acting as both a haunting reminder of humanities darkest hours and a popular canvas for social thought.
Dark embers glow, a still heart forged from starlight on the eve of judgement. A once Jovian anvil now broken by the will of false gods. Yet the lifeless beats anew. Pangaea wakes to a vast numbness, rising to dull tones permeating primordial canals, her infantile vision clouded by sea greens and sky blues. Her fragile frame exudes light as if an open doorway on the darkest of nights.
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Dancing shadows draw a maze of black twisting tunnels, blocked and barricaded by cave-ins and mutant trees. At the centre of this Tomb Raider puzzle stands a small stone carving surrounded by four passageways leading off every 90 degrees. None has a visible ending, each twisting off to oblivion and I suddenly forget which one I arrived in, they all look the same.
A casually calculated arrangment of canvas and washing lines blow in the relentless desert wind, unsettled people strewn across the blazing sands for as far as the eye can see. I quietly pick my way through the aging pavillion latticework, it’s populace looking on with interest as I make my way through this hallowed land. Red and white head-scarfs whip manically at shoulders, sandy eyes tracking me from beyond the gloom of tattered canvas. I’m vaguely aiming for the silhouette of a hill that I guess is the outskirts of Sweileh, but frankly I have no idea where I am.