14.01.2023
Lützerath, Germany.
Bioisms for future with 35000 people of Greenpeace at Lützerath.

Lützerath wasn’t supposed to matter or exist beyond 2023.
A village with dark matter beneath our feet, partly invisible but heavy, stitching together this earth and the universe beyond. Across the mud and rain-soaked fields, pink creatures floated, carried by the crowd: synthetic organic speculations, wobbling defiantly over the muck like insane spores invading a protest.
Thirty-five thousand people had gathered to remind each other that an ordinary piece of land could hold extraordinary weight. A monster digger loomed in the crater like an impatient Cronus.
The people, meanwhile, waded through mud swallowing entire ideologies.
In the midst of this swampy outrage, the pink creatures shook forward. Smooth, translucent, ridiculously unearthly things, inventions of defiance, they bobbed lightly as their carriers slogged through mud that clung below with the grasp of a Gaia. A farmer, a feminist, an anarchist, a propagandist, a musician, a green, a crocodile, whoever carried bioisms which nobody quite knew how to parent or treat, alien things.
The coal, as ancient as logical decisions, waited in silence, a substance that had once been trees, now fuel, later dust of history.
The upcoming, inevitable village demolition, erasure, became a trigger for outrage, daring thirty-five thousand wet humans to tell it why it didn’t deserve another round in the furnaces of cannibalistic economic growth.
Protesters laughed at whether the shiny creatures were symbolic of some queer pink party, or argued if they were just an awkward attempt to look intelligent against a backdrop of geopolitical-economic depression.
And yet, the pink bioisms were indifferent happiness. They glided above the mud: a paradox too shiny for this wet dirt, too bright to be understood. They existed comfortably without purpose, mocking both coal and humanity itself. They were everything the machinery and ideologies weren’t: soft, absurdly pretty, and impossible to control. For all their fragility, in the mess, their rosy skins looked like they’d just wandered out of a much, much cleverer terraforming.
They didn’t break but reflected in the grey drops of rainy sky, resistant, existent, refusing to take mud, machines, and politics seriously.
That day, coal remained unbothered. It held no feelings for the pink creations or the shouting herd above. Beneath the muck, it waited until humanity would drag it tomorrow into another act of combustion.
Thirty-five thousand dripping homos stamped above it, boots sucked deeply into rebellion, arms outstretched with pink nonsense.