In the constructed world, we are surrounded by instructions and warnings. They're literally called signs. Sometimes, I try to find humour in the literal meaning of something like Mind the Gap.

But that's not the only one. Ever since I learned to read, if I see words, I read them. It is a curse, and a blessing; and everywhere I go, words pollute the urban environment like the droppings of pigeons. Some have the potential to fertilise, others prevent the forces of Darwin's natural selection from simply just getting on with it.

Mind the Gap

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I know that this means to be careful of the unknowable, fatal void that exists between platform and train carriage, but I cannot help but envision a statuesque array of hooded figures with prams, lovingly looking in on a piece of concrete, a white line, and a stripe of metal with a disembodied foot hanging in the gap.

What truly is the "gap", and how must we mind it? There are gaps elsewhere in society. Gaps that exist between hunger and nutrition, between the competitive salary and the bills that yearn to eternally vanquish.

^{STAND, photograph by me}

And, finally, which gap, am I minding? Is the gap simply just some vast, limitless abstraction, or this gap, between my feet and the rapidly closing carriage doors?

The Sign as Environmental Control

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These instructions, literal as they are, perhaps form part of the control that the built environment and our mastery of language heap upon us in countless, relentless demands and suggestions. Are signs instruction manuals for our environment, or signs asking us, impolitely to "KEEP OUT" - a thinly veiled attempt to get us to not take the fence indoors?

Paint is splashed onto the road, within the confines of a stencil as a demand:

KEEP

CLEAR

Perhaps I will divert my journey to the psychoanalyst's office by keeping my thoughts clear of distraction. Or, a clear mind will help me mayhap, be a better motorist. It surely can't be the fire station by the road side needing a rapid exit to attend some urgent even elsewhere.

The siren rings to my left, the diesel engine roars, and it vanishes down the roadway. I proceed to my destination, on my way to read more signs.

No Entry, No Exit

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Paradoxical signs sit at the entry to a one way street, disappearing in my rear view mirror, "No Exit". At the grocer, at a door opens, but is marked "No Entry". People emerge from the sliding glass, carts full of groceries which provide them with further instructions.

Do not consume raw
Product must be fully cooked prior to consumption

Or my favourite, the peanuts, warning may contain traces of nuts. I fucking well hope so. Make sure it does what it says on the tin packet.

I adore photographs of signs in the urban environment that suggest that there is "No Exit". Existentially, these signs are very interesting and can be the topic of philosophical texts no one will stop to read. But the sign? It is read. It is visual noise, disruption against the inviting allure of the tarmac beyond.

Or, back to those sliding doors marked "No Entry", barring me from forever accessing those other signs and instructions leap forward to grapple with my attention in the aisles. I just want something for my hunger.

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The built environment is a horror show if you can read. It is even more terrifying if you understand. I am not often baffled by the intent signs, but I am forever observing: so happy to misinterpret their capitalised letters screaming demands into the gap.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a sign asking me to Please wait here.

_{But for how long, and where even is here?}