The Dampkring, Amsterdam

Mouths filled with slogans, heads full of commercials, hearts overflowing with Hollywood—the American tourists are out on the prowl in the Red Light, including me, but I’m looking for something else. The truest answer transcends our ability to formulate its question. Everything’s an illusion except for the way illusions work. I used to think the answer would come from within. But now it seems that within is formed entirely from without. From things outside of myself, if such a boundary even exists. My bucket of a self, a bucket of near-infinite volume, able to hold the sun, the moon, the stars, whatever I fill it with. All my experiences. All my guts. All my bullshit. All my selves. None of which are mine. None of which are enough. I’m missing something. Something I must have overlooked. Like, maybe everything.