We are inside of what we make – was a saying cyberfeminists used even in the 90s when the internet was starting to be used on a mass scale. A whole generation of thinkers from 1960s sees an alliance between women, machines and new technology. There is a connection between information technology and women’s emancipation movement. We now live what many foresaw back then.

Computers are not about computers anymore, it’s about living. Think of a computer the way you think about sneakers, something made to be comfortable, to make us be quicker and feel lighter. They can be pretty, but they are always practical. Isn’t it so? A cell phone is our ID card, not our land line. One day, entering world wide web will be like opening a fridge, said veterans of Digital Revolution. We are now living that once fascinating thought completely normally. Nothing unusual. And third shall be first and that prophecy has come true, Third World countries are so much more technologically superior, quicker and more innovative. Not to mention more manipulative. But people are like that, there is no right and wrong. Only fun and boring.

“Technology is not neutral. We’re inside of what we make, and it’s inside of us. We’re living in a world of connections – and it matters which ones get made and unmade.”

I sit in a restaurant in Nothing Hill in London, reading a little a book by Julia Cameron Walking In This World, while also reading a little art addition in Time Out magazine. Some very young artists are creating spatial installations where they are simulating a gay club, the title of the text is You Are In The Picture. I smile to myself, I did that a few years ago at the traditional Serbian art festival, October Salon, and with the work titled copy.of.copy and fake.chic. You’re not looking at art hanging from a wall or displayed in space, but you are going inside a picture. How do you feel when you are inside the picture yourself? I was early again by a few years, but there is time, because at one point I will surely find myself displayed at Saatchi gallery or end up as an artwork at the Tate Modern museum. The same Tate Modern where a few years ago I found myself crying over trying too hard with Giant. And somehow nothing was working out for me. Or everything was working out the way it was supposed to. Now, everything is starting to make sense. Even this restaurant where I am sitting, I was here with him. But I remember only the wonderful moments, everything else is forgotten. Time works for me only if I spend every day working on myself. I dream with my eyes open, but things are already happening the way I had dreamed them and pictured them many times before.

Next to me is an Indian woman with her cheerful children. One is in a stroller, she is feeding the other while he’s pouring water over himself, and the third child is singing to herself. Complete chaos at the table and around them. They are incredibly cute, and slightly pale, probably due to English weather. Some people get kids completely without thinking about it. Others because they have to, or think they have to, and it all comes down to simple reproduction. I’m not sure I want children at the moment. Not in a way this used to be before. I don’t want to be a factory or to fulfill someone else’s wishes or to fill out dissatisfaction with my own life. I wouldn’t want to be a borrowed uterus. My children will come into the world only as a product of love. Somehow I owe this to myself, to my mother, and to the world.

I order coffee, some fair-trade, of course, with soy milk, and consider going out, even though it’s not really warm outside, but London is a smoke-free zone now. Next to my obsession with healthy living (in translation – I am a hypochondriac), I’ve retained the habit of drinking coffee only in the afternoon, after lunch. I even smoke four cigarettes, Italian style, only after lunch. For pleasure only, I am too lazy to explain if someone doesn’t understand. There is perfection in imperfection. Mine and all around. I know I cause lascivious smiles when they ask me whether I smoke, and I answer yes, I smoke, but only in the afternoon. To admit your own weakness is the greatest courage, I remembered that he told me the first time we saw one another. You are constantly in a dilemma. Another book about confusion is a perfect title.

Confusion is a feeling that follows us when we leave the cage, the norms and molds of the right way of thinking and doing, that which is predetermined, from the warm sanctuary where we hid not from others, but from ourselves. Going out into the world, stepping into the unknown, chaotic way of being where everything you had believed in and thought was a rule, start to melt and crumble in front of your eyes. When you wonder, think, experiment, when you start a journey through unfamiliar cultures, or when you start your own spiritual journey. Confusion doesn’t happen on the outside, but on the inside. Who am I, why I am here, what’s my purpose? When you leave the matrix, first you are welcomed by confusion and insecurity. No one to guarantee or sign for you. Neither a wedding ring, or a wedding gown is of any worth. It’s all up to you. When nothing is true, but everything is allowed. State of confusion is chaos before order, unrest before peace, anger before pleasure, sorrow before joy, hatred before love. A process.

And now, Mr. Poetic appears at the door, as a sweet, familiar face among the unknown people. He is carrying books and CDs, still not convinced of downloads. He is wearing a rain coat and an umbrella, like every square analog poetic gentleman. You, my dear, need old school, said my friend back when he first showed up. Or an incarnation of Nikola Tesla, a computer wizard who can fascinate you with his knowledge of the digital, or old school who is a complete opposite of you, but set up to a good operating system, as you would say. Old school.

Although we also sighed over Hugh Grant in Nothing Hill, all confused, clumsy and coming from another time. In fact, he was timeless. And that has nothing to do with age.

– I apologize for keeping you waiting.

– To be honest, dear Mr. Poetic, I haven’t been waiting. I reply.

I remembered something the owner of an esoteric bookstore told me: When you have magic, who needs marriage. You’ll see. You are a free spirit, don’t let them limit you. And stop limiting yourself. Someday magic will be serious science. It’s only a question of Time. You didn’t just happen to buy The Science of Magic. I didn’t. Nothing is ever coincidental.

– I haven’t been waiting. All this time, I have, in fact, been enjoying my own company. Shall I order a coffee for you as well?

– Ah, yes… – He kisses me on the nose and then surprises me with a real kiss that I feel sorry we are in a public place, and surrounded by people.

– I brought you something. That singer of yours that you love so much has a new album – He hands me Buble’s new album at the exact same moment as one of his songs starts to play in the coffee shop. It’s called Home.

And it’s one of those moments you just look at each other.

And you understand.

Without words.

Time stops.

In fact, the time has fragmented as a term because past, present and future are all standing in one plane.

I read about that – SynchoDestiny. A coincidence that has a purpose. Cosmic connection. It contains signs and meanings. A small cosmic sign that confirms you are on the right path. Wherever you are going… just keep on.

His hug is like a treatment of the best bioenergy. Warm, familiar, like coming back home. A momentary energizer in the present tense. All of my internal organs are rejoicing. It’s like bathing in light.

Metaphysics would explain it as an unconventional meeting of two life energies. Buddhists would say – two souls traveled through time to find one another. If knowledge is a memory, then love is probably something we already know, but are only remembering. Geek culture would call it compatible systems. Common people would simply call it love.

Love that stirs up butterflies in your belly, while it also calms you. Love that frees you. Grows, multiplies and expands like the light. To find all of that in one person sounded surreal. Which doesn’t mean I wasn’t hoping it was possible. Dreaming of it. And remembered it. This entire adventure is just another proof that nothing is impossible.

– Coffee will do just fine. Same as yours, only slightly different – He is laughing imitating me, while our mood spreads to everyone around us. People love it when love is in the air. Whenever. Wherever. They feel.

– But let’s drink it outside – he holds my hand. – If I tell you now let me take care of you a little, you won’t cry?

– You’ve been reading…

– Of course, I read everything you write. A couple of carefully chosen words at the right time can change our lives. I like your self-fulfilling prophecies. Who knows where that will lead us?

– Abracadabra. Wherever we want.

Let’s go outside.

The world is seriously a magical place.