‘Out here’ people have houses, gardens and cars (as do I). They have barbecues en masse and they have friends and family over a Saturday night like now. I know this, because I just returned from a walk through the neighborhood, somewhat eerie of the fact that I am now back in bourgeois territory, not much different what what I grew up in.

On my way to work, I pass Christiania (what once was a ‘free city’, now a quasi-subcultural stronghold about to be normalized by our liberal government), and I often take notice of punks and grunge-type ‘drop-outs’, most of all because I’m impressed that two so historically anchored styles still seem to be going strong. Often you hear the motivation behind these outfits and lifestyles articulated as a vague desire to ‘be different’.

Well, on my nightly stroll through suburbia it strikes me that a much stronger motivation is the fear of being ‘the same’. I know, because I’ve lived with that fear most of my life. I’ve used it as a drive, every time I felt sucked down by routines and habitual thought or was surrounded by people desperately praising status quo and the ordinary.

Now, being here, and – on a symbolical level, at least – among this too-familar sameness (embracing but potentially numbing) I am making plans for a casual night out on the town (black outfit, tie and long drinks with matching conversations).

But I will return here. And I shall return the embrace. With every ambivalent fiber left in me.

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