Abandoned Berlin: An Apocalyptic Dream
Outside, I confront a polka-dotted sky, perfect circles of debris swirling above the destroyed city—a completely leveled off skyline struck by a nuclear bomb.
I am mandated to wear a multi-colored unitard to a nightclub in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin. My platform shoes are cement blocks painted neon pink that were constructed in the nightclub prior to the DJ spinning her tunes.
“This is the perfect foundation to restrain your licentious and unconventional ways,” a man’s voice blares from a speaker on the wall. “Und tanzen ist verboten!” He shouts at me in German, so I leave.
Outside, I confront a polka-dotted sky, perfect circles of debris swirling above the destroyed city—a completely leveled off skyline struck by a nuclear bomb.
The sky bursts open. Acid rain. I run toward dilapidated buildings that manifest in the distance. The massive structures are riddled with bullet holes. Inside, broken panes of glass cover the concrete floor. Sea green paint peels off its interior cracked plaster wall—the remnants of war—bones of lathe shamelessly exposed and disfigured.
And me, clinging to the vacant space, surrounded by an ashen field of loneliness in a city that has been demolished once more.