The truth is...

So this is new. And it is exciting. The thrill of putting a road on the map by driving it for the first time... It is like walking around in the dark. Our feet exploring the ground rather than merely stepping on it. My breath hitching with uncertainty and expectation. I am trying to figure you out, when we put up our conversations as background noise for this journey on collision course. It is exciting to conquer you bit by bit: Coffee break, phone number, dead of night conversations, your hand while watching a movie... I am sure our sex will be epic once it happens... but the truth is... The truth is I am not sure if I can love you like I loved her. And what if I cannot?

Ein Wunder

Ich warte auf ein Wunder. Eins, das vielleicht nie passiert. Doch es lohnt sich, drauf zu hoffen. Komm und warte doch mit mir. Lass uns dabei weiterleben - als Vorbereitung, falls es geschieht... Ich warte auf ein Wunder. Dieses eine.

Where are the plural pronouns?

the grass has grown too long on the meadow where I used to lie. It lost the prickly stiffness of grass mowed during hot summer weeks and like a giant green carpet it cushions my fall as I am wrestled to my knees by the silken June breeze. Tell me again why there's nobody left in the world. Where are the cars that swoosh from east to west in the background? Where's the hum that fortifies each and every heartbeat thundering in my ears? Where are the plural pronouns that governed my voice and the name that tied my tongue for countless hours? I tried to hold on to my field of vision: swaying green stripes on electric blue - and the slim chance to see that marvelous apricot shade again if I kept very still.

--

Writing poetry is easy:
there are letters and words,
short lines
like steps on hot asphalt,
the rhythm of a drunkard
swaying to a silent symphony
or stumbling
over invisible steps.

You can write and write
about skies and stars
while you're preoccupied
with eyes and scars
and smiles and skin that are off limits,
and that one name that doesn't rhyme,
don't mention all of that, then spin it,
cut it into verses and lines -
that's it, you wrote a little song
about a warm night's starry ceiling
about the one for which you long
and what you thought you were concealing...


In the back of my head The words are fading from my favourite songs, because nobody sings them.

musings

How is it that even after we spent years - sometimes half a life - littered with late night phone calls of affectionate silence, with love notes and flowers, with our hands buried in our lover's hair while our tongues danced the sweetest tango; years filled with handholding (sometimes absolutely neccessary and sometimes just a habit), with learning all the favourites, the pleasures, the surefire hits to evoke joy in those eyes that we had studied like books until we understood that dark chocolate on a rainy day or sucking a nipple into our mouths could spark a fire in the darkest night; and then the odd moment when their pain became ours even - perhaps even more so! - if we had caused it ourselves... How can we live through this and then still find ourselves here: At the kitchen sink on a warm night in late May, looking at or through our reflection in the window and wondering... wondering if they even know! If they even know that this was after all the real deal. That this was love.

--

How do you love someone when you know you'll have to let them go in a few years' time? How do you deal with this riptide, this strangely abstract sensation of being swept away; how do you cope with the utter necessity of pouring all your being into this love when you know the ending date is set?
Every second is right now and somehow they light your life - as cheesy as it sounds - they open you up to a host of new perspectives and you drink them up greedily; they make your life a dance more often than not; and you're afraid for them. Afraid because they are so good and pure and perfect that the world can only tarnish them.
And for now - right now - you are protector and queen, friend and moral guidance, partner in crime and refuge. You are the centre of their world just like they are the centre of yours...
But how can you stand it for even the smallest fraction of a second - how can you stand loving like this if you already know that you'll have to see them off, that you'll have to watch as they sail away on another wind?
Are you in denial? Are you still trying to love them less fiercely? Or have you resigned yourself to be ripped to shreds?

--

Lass uns in ein Land ziehen, in dem wir verfolgt werden, denn ich glaub, dass wir ihn brauchen: den gemeinsamen Feind. Lass uns in ein Land ziehen, in dem man uns foltern will, hängen oder steinigen vielleicht, das wär schön. Da könnt ich jeden Tag Angst haben, dass du stirbst und es wär ganz normal. Da wären wir auf der Flucht und ich müsste dich nicht teilen, denn es wären ja nur wir beide. Dann hätten wir andere Probleme als wie wir unser Wohnzimmer streichen oder wer die Steuererklärung macht oder warum verdammt noch mal du schon wieder die Milch hast anbrennen lassen. Luxusprobleme? Vielleicht. Und doch sind sie nicht weniger akut.
Lass uns in ein Land ziehen, in dem wir verfolgt werden, in dem wir keine Rechte haben und und keine Vertrauten. Und lass uns dort so lange bleiben, dass wir die heile Welt vergessen, aus der wir kommen. Denn meine Liebe ist nicht umsonst.

Nein, sie hat ihren Preis und den musst du zahlen, wenn du mich nimmst.

Catching fire

I am always looking

for others who try to grasp

this:

 

The morning hour that rustles through our hair

more white than blue

or the hand-width of breath

still caught in your lungs

when you ask that question

that clung to your teeth like a stray fibre of sickly sweet peach

or how in the evenings

my freckles mirror star maps

after just a few days in the sun.

 

I want to know

that others see, that they…

understand!

There’s so much more than meets the eye.

When you smile and say my name

it is more than two random syllables,

and when we wake

yet again

and always again

in a fresh tomorrow

then mere sunrise becomes an invitation

to try again and catch

all this wonder that rides with the wind

and runs through our hands like water.

Bahnsteige. -- Deutschland ist ein Gefuehl.

Solang es Bahnsteige gibt und goldglænzende Weizenfelder, solange da auf der Buehne jemand steht neben dem Cello ganz ohne erste Geige, solange es Bushaltestellen gibt, an denen ahnungsvoll gewartet wird, und eine Hand, die in meine passt, als wære sie nur dafuer ausgedacht; solange Flugzeuge ueber den Himmel blinken, einem Sehnsuchtsort entgegen; Solange Finger an beschlagene Scheiben malen und die klirrend kalte Januarluft in meinen Lungen brennt, als waere auch in meinem Herzen Feuer, solange kann man - muss man! - von diesen Menschen singen, die Mærchennamen tragen oder Martin heissen, und die da stehen, auf dem Bahnsteig, und fuer die wir aufstehen auch an Tagen, an denen unser Zug noch lange nicht kommt. Ein Leben, das man nicht verschwenden kann, ist keins. Ein Leben, in dem man nicht einen ganzen Tag verspielen kann mit einer Gitarre und einem Liebeslied fuer jemanden, den man eigentlich gar nicht kennt... was ist das fuer ein Leben?
Die Unordnung tuermt sich in unseren Zimmern, weil Winter ist und wir das Meiste, was wir sind, hier drin sein muessen. Ich raeum samstags auf und am Sonntag sieht es wieder genauso aus. Und ich stell mir vor, bei meinen Schuhen unterm Bett laege auch ein paar von deinen und erzaehlte von schlitternden Schritten, mitgewippten Konzerten, einem Kuechentanz vielleicht. Ich will dir gestehen, dass Sex vielleicht nicht immer Liebe ist, aber so wie dein Koerper im Mondlicht leuchtet, koennte es doch Liebe sein. Doch um Sex soll es gar nicht gehen erstmal. Ich will dir die Schuhe binden und fragen, ob wir heilig sind. Und alle Muenzen, die wir finden, werfen wir in die Luft - denn fuer den Moment ist es egal, ob wir es wirklich fuer einander sind. Allein, dass wir es erwaegen, reicht mir.


Deutschland ist eben auch ein Gefuehl. Ein Zimmer, in dem man etwas verloren hat, das man nicht panisch suchen muss. Denn es kommt ja nichts weg. Es ist diese Ernsthaftigkeit, ohne die Pathos immer Parodie bleiben muss. Du lachst. Entvoelkerte Landstriche, weil wir uns nach der Stadt sehnen. Wir pendeln zwischen Atem und Puls. Weil wir beides brauchen, weil wir letzten Endes vielleicht sogar die Altmark retten koennen, weil wir diese beiden Pole aus Aufstieg und Verfall lieben. Wir tragen Angst in unserem Blick - vielleicht wird es nie wieder so schoen! Deutschland - du lachst! Es ist nicht dein Land. Oder nicht schon immer gewesen. Und ich sitze in Norwegen in der Pampa und sage "wir" und meine weder dich noch mich. Es gehoert mir. Dieses wir. Und meint zwei, die sind wie ich gern waere. Deutschland gehoert mir. Wie dein Mund, wenn du Sonnenbrille traegst. Es ist ein Gefuehl. Als koennte man etwas oder jemanden erreichen. Egal ob man nun zu Fuss geht, oder das naechste Auto aufbricht. Keine Zeit fuers Paradies. Es gibt so viel zu tun.

Für wen?

Für wen hebst du den Rest deines Lebens auf? Und wer sagt dir, wie lang er ist, dieser Rest? Dich zu lieben ist nicht einfach. Das ist ernst, aber nicht schlimm. Ich schmeiß die Beatmaschine an und greif die Gitarre, unter uns wird der Asphalt Heizdecke und es riecht nach Bier und Wildrosen.Du sagst "Morgen müssen wir an den See" und wir schauen uns lange an, bevor wir durch die Nacht taumeln und über den Freibadzaun klettern - das hier ist es. Für wen hebst du den Rest deines Lebens auf?

Es ist wie wenn man mit jemandem Zelten geht und tagelang aufeinanderhockt. Man ist froh, wenn man wieder zu Hause ist und endlich wieder allein und nur mit sich. Aber wenn es Abend wird und die Grillen wieder ihr Liedchen anstimmen, dann fehlt da jemand, der auch die Hand ausstreckt zu den Sternen.

Das ist der Unterschied.

Der Außenminister von Slowenien wollte die UN aufweichen und das Mädchen hat geweint deswegen. Während die anderen bei McDonalds duschten, hielten wir Händchen und es war egal, dass wir uns sicher waren, dass auch ein neue Versuch nicht mehr Erfolgsaussichten birgt, denn wir wussten, dass ohnehin nicht mehr viel Zeit übrig war. Wir standen im Gewandhaus neben der Orgel und das Gefühl war das gleiche. Sie trug die Hose, die damals in einem mehrstündigen Prozess ausgesucht werden musste und ihr Geruch sagte: "We're about to go down. It's all the same now." Wir wussten, dass niemand uns sehen würde, wenn wir uns selbst nicht sahen, also stellten wir uns neben dem Podium auf und küssten uns im Schatten wichtiger Reden. Es war Krieg und wir folgerichtig wieder zusammen. Denn das war ja auch Krieg.

Pragmatism and concordancing

I fell in love at the Pantibar. And it could've been Belfast or Berlin even, because geography is so overrated. Maybe if we'd tried a little harder the world would've crumpled under that Glasgow moon a few days later. How foolish it seems now to be scared of the apocalypse! But, alas, the world continued its endless rotation and you found that angst was a theme we carried well. I fell in love at the Pantibar and as a firm believer in plot twists I shrugged off all the warnings, because everybody knows that in the end even a doormat can become a queen, right? And plot twists we had! I quit drinking and smoking because I was so afraid of killing myself directly, when I'd obviously rather kill myself by proxy. Heaven knows I came close. Right now, I am not more damaged than most people at this point and I hope neither are you. After all, we tend to accept the love we think we deserve. So maybe we should reconsider our thoughts on this.
Which is why I am leaning into a pragmatic understanding of the world (which is as ridiculously doomed as it sounds - me! Pragmatic!)... and I have to say it kinda works. It goes well with a certain fatalism I acquired and it surely makes room in nihilism for a hopeless romantic. I discovered that it is in fact really easy to make this love/relationship/romance/fairytale stunt work. Considering that all you need is a minimum of attraction, an initial spark and above all the willingness of both parties to connect all the bits and pieces to a thing. Nothing fancy about it. Which makes it even sadder that people fail time and again in making it happen. After all, it can't be that difficult to deceive ourselves and weave hormonal chemistry and good timing into destiny, right?
Pragmatism basically consists in measuring all your hysterical pathos against that one simple truth: Still breathing, still alive, just another day.
That said, I am not waiting for another plot twist. I am not even hoping for it... but I have to admit it would be tremendous and epic and larger-than-life in Italian and with subtitles. And if it came along I would totally tear myself apart jumping right it, because when your life turns into an opera you stand up and sing.

Now to concordancing. I have been concordancing for a long time now. Without actually knowing it. I learned the vocabulary just a year ago in one of my seminars. I use Google to check for spelling (the option that gets more hits wins) or collocations (though they have tinkered with the "**" function I think... in all their optimizing they made quotation queries less sharp...) and when I think it is really important, or I need more detailed search functions I use on of the linguistic corpora as a concordancer. I like concordancing, because it doesn't tell what to do, but rather gives you the statistics about what the rest of the world does. And if you decide to say things differently then you have it your way.
Sometimes I wish there was something like concordancing for life. Because in our religious egoism we feel so unique (though some small voice in the back of our heads knows we probably aren't) and I think it would be good to simply type in a few words into some concordancer and see: "writing applications after graduation" gets more hits than "not writing applications after graduation" but the difference is not a great as expected. Or: "Thinking your life has changed when it hasn't" is not as uncommon as you want to believe - our brain is sneaky like that.
Of course, we would still be clueless about where to go from here, but at least we would be absolutely certain that millions of others are just as confused.

Die Freibadsaison ist eröffnet!

Ich habe mich entschlossen, ein glückliches arbeitsloses Leben zu führen. Schließlich ist Sommer. Kann mir ja im Grunde egal sein, wenn ich fürs Nichtstun bezahlt werde. Mit dieser neuen Perspektive geht es mir erstaunlich gut. Die Parks sind mein, ich lese viel, ich versuche (Sportverbort sei Dank! *grr*) nicht so viel zu laufen und stattdessen mehr zu schwimmen und ich koche großartige Dinge. Prompt sah ich heute meine "Chefin" im Park. Sie war mit Nordic-Walking-Stöcken unterwegs und ich habe mit Andi Einbeinkniebeuge gemacht, worüber meiner Ärztin vermutlich den Kopf geschüttelt hätte. Aber noch weiß man nicht genaues. Ich hab jetzt zwar ne hübsche CD mit Detailaufnahmen meiner Lendenwirbelsäule, bin aber kein Stück schlauer.
Nur eines ist mir aufgefallen: Vor dem MRT wurden mir ein paar Fragen bezüglich der Schmerzen und meiner Krankengeschichte gestellt. Keine davon war offenbar für meine Hausärztin von Belang gewesen. Nicht, ob ich gestürzt war, schwer gehoben hatte, die Schmerzen sich verschlechterten - nein. Sie hatte mich quasi nur durch ihr Behandlungszimmer zum MRT durchgewinkt. Nun ja. Hab ich das auch mal gesehen.

Ich trage mich mit dem Gedanken, morgen die Freibadsaison einzuläuten und gleich morgens im Schreberbad auf der Matte zu stehen... aber das wird wohl das Wetter morgen entscheiden.

--

Notiz an das zukünftige Ich: Mit 25 ist eines meiner Hauptanliegen an meine Zukunft, bitte auch mit 60 noch ein aktives Sexleben zu haben. (Ja, ja und Weltfrieden!)

--

Ich starb einen Juli lang. Jeden Tag. Bei jedem Sonnenaufgang und mit jedem Schritt, immer wenn ich die Vorspultaste drückte und seltsam verwirrt auf Buchseiten starrte. Ich starb einen Juli lang. Wählte eine Telefonnummer und wusste nicht, was zu sagen. Es war ein unheimlich langer Monat. Mit brennenden Füßen auf heißem Asphalt, mit Erdbeerblut an den Händen... und jeden Abend setzte mein Herz aus, hielt mein Atem an, wollte all mein Sein Nichtsein werden. Ich starb einen Juli lang. Und überlebte doch. Man müsste meinen, ich hätte gelernt, es zu nehmen, wie es kommt. Denn es kommt wieder und wieder. Aber es stirbt sich nicht leise.
Im Juli aber soll man ausziehen in die Hitze der Nacht, soll dem Leichtsinn die Hand reichen und nackt durch Seen schwimmen, man soll auf Bordsteinen sitzen und das Leben bewundern und den küssen, der da ist, im Juli. Ohne Hintergedanken. Einen Juli lang.

Every month was May.

And then you go back and see that you wanted to build your life on one month. One month of confusion and pain that is. And what is more - you have to admit that you would do it again. If anybody has cheated you out of your luck, it was yourself. But life doesn't work like this with the pointed fingers and neatly written bills to account for all the faults that we covered ourselves in. No. Life was wonderful. And I decided to believe that a one month rollercoaster ride could be the perfect foundation for the kind of fairytale I wanted to write. I made that choice. I changed my life. And it was the right thing. Even though all that sweetness turned into bitterness at some point. Even though our exploratory conversations turned into elaborated small talk. I was all in. And I was the first to head out in an effort to keep us alive.

For a while now a certain realization is dawning on me. The world has swallowed us whole. I won't get the wondrous conversations back. And certainly not the all-mapped-out life-plan I jumped into once. Life has been going on all around us. I understand that. I understand there's no turning back, no making up, no starting afresh. It wouldn't be my kind of life if there was. And fortunately the time has come where even I am starting to move on.
But you have to try for magic. You have to try. Even if it means recklessly believing against your better judgement.

If this is the cage of expectations you were so afraid of, I am sorry. But you owe me. You owe me being the happiest you can possibly be.

I'm a lover

I fall for beautiful girls with radiant smiles. And you might wonder what's so special about that. Everything. I can be faithful in a way that overcomes rejection and I can be fickle collecting crushes like baseball cards. I decide. Once I'm in, I'm in. I'm a lover. And while I am still trying to learn how to swim, rather than drowning everytime, I do believe in this force as something undeniable and ultimately, something positive.
I fall for beautiful girls with radiant smiles or clever eyes or a bold stride and I break myself around them most of the time. But nevertheless it's for the better, I think. Those moments of racing hearts and secret smiles and sometimes sparks... that is worth something. It has to be. It is never pointless, nor wrong, nor futile. That motion propels us along on our ways. It shapes us significantly. Irrevocably.
I'm a lover. And I am growing so I can one day be humble. Just recently I finally learned something essential: Forgiveness. And that there is a difference between talking it and feeling it.
I fall for girls who grab me by the heart. And I refuse to let them go without a fight. But I am still growing so I can one day be humble and open my hands. Then maybe the pain will blossom into light and weightlessness.

I lost to watch you win.

Being nochalant has never gotten anyone very far

"You know, when we first started seeing each other I wasn't sure if I could deliver. He seemed to be into this up to his neck and I was just... I had no guarantees, no plan or even wish on how things should turn out. I felt I might be taking him for a rollercoaster ride of attraction and longing and deception. But he seemed so unfraid, so certain, so... I took the plunge. And I discovered that I could do this. I could take the plunge again and again everyday. I could dare to be commited, to be head over heels, to be hopelessly, madly in love with him. There was nothing deceiving about it. I was in for a lifelong romance made up of day-to-day "I do"s. Even when I was angry with him. Even when I hated him. I still made the decision to be his. I still was certain that he should be part of the mess I come home to.
Funnily though, the more certain I became about my own commitment, the more important was his. What if, one day, he questioned his decision to be with me? What if his life could function just as well without me in it? Where would that leave me? Would I be able to loosen this bond again? I went a little crazy there. And somewhere along those lines, I lost him. I suppose he is not coming back. Ever. Yet, my heart hasn't grown out of choosing him. Each morning, each day, every night. I deliver. I want him to know all the small things about me. Like, how the smell of strawberries makes me so happy, I eat them even though I don't really like the taste. Or that I block the shower with 7 different shower gels that I use according to my mood of the day. I wish he wanted to know that. Because I let him in. And now I cannot seem to get him out again."

--

"When I married her, I opened my world to her. I made her a part of my life. And along with her came her family, her hometown, her jokes and childhood fairytales, her dreams and adventures, her ambitions and scars, her traditions, friends, her favourite colour on the walls of our living room and her most precious books on my nightstand so I could read her page by page. My favourite music didn't become hers. But she listened to it while doing the dishes and it made her smile because it was a part of me.
When you share a life it is impossible to count all the things that you share. And most of the time, it is only when you try to separate those lives again that you notice that you will get out half a life only, if you take away what you brought in.
Had you told me this morning that I would be without her tonight... I would've had trouble breathing from laughing so hard. Laughing at the absurdity of this incomprehensible half-life. It will be mostly pain for a while now - but after that? Does her hometown become a blank spot on the map? Do I leave behind her hilarious New Year's ritual? Shall I repaint our flat? Abandon it altogether? And if I don't - who would be willing to suffer through this life with me? "

--

Life doesn't make sense. Either we make sense of it, or it is all just an arbitrary line of actions. I am drawing a black X on my chest. Just in case you needed help identifying the target.

Will I ever grow wise?

Do you remember how we wanted to study medicine, you and me? We had a thing for lost causes, for hoping against hope, for crescendos and doing everything in our power to make something happen... We were our own personal superheroes. It was a thing. Our lives were raw and unrestrained and full of fear and joy and giddiness and sometimes nausea. From wanting too much. We subtitled our days in the desperate attempt to make everybody feel this. This. The rush. The wonder and amazement. The pain cutting right down to the bone. We got up in the mornings and we got drunk in the nights, if not on alcohol then on love, the craving for more aching in the backs of our throats. We wanted to study medicine or become rockstars or die really young. We wanted something.

Six years have passed and though I cannot speak for you, I seem to be just as desperate and hungry and full of illusions as I was back then. I cannot imagine that my heartbeat will be drowned out by a white noise. I still believe in forever and that I can make this world stop. I still love the way you used to. You know, the kind of love that makes for graffitis on the walls of your room and songs written in the dead of night. The kind of love that makes you dizzy with fear and recklessly brave. It's the kind of love you are certain nobody else has ever experienced. Gosh, how often we died on platforms faced with leaving trains! ... I heard, you're living the dream with the girl we went all crazy about. I hope it's true. You know how we spoke about marriage, back when it was a far-away concept? When we were so sure that once we could make someone understand, it would last 'til we died? Well, it seems I got married. And you seem to be in there for life as well. So you might want to think about doing her the honour and give her an opportunity to wear an absolutely stunning white dress, obsess over guestlists and cakes and family and make it official. I'm sure, you could pull it off. Because you might not see it, but you are the goddamn prince. All shiny and heroic, with the pathos and the pain. And I wish you all the best.

Maybe it is like walking down a corridor. A corridor that seems endless. Doors on both sides. A fluffy carpet beneath your feet and fancy looking lamps above your head. The corridor is not broad enough to walk anywhere else than exactly in the middle of it. And so you do. You go on and on. And if you ever want to get anywhere, you have to decide, not only how far to go, but also which door to open. They all look the same with their golden handles and thei dark wood complexion. You pass the lights, the doors, the years maybe. Left or right? This one or the next? You wish they would carry numbers, so you could choose you favourite. But they all look the same. Undistinguishable, neither inviting nor decidedly off-putting. And you walk. Hoping somebody will come out of one of these doors. Pull you in maybe. So one day you can climb stairs and run along beaches, instead of walking the line.

Übers Ziel

Ich bin übers Ziel hinausgeschossen. Ich hab dich mit Isolierband repariert und Blumen gemalt, wo Risse waren. Hab gesagt, dass vielleicht nur eine kleine Narbe bleibt und alles gut wird. Natürlich, alles gut. Ich griff nach deiner Hand, den Berg hinauf und hinunter, in Gedanken am Strand. Den Blick nach vorn, drückte ich deine Linke im Takt meiner Schritte, erzählte vom Meer und vom Ankommen und jedes zweite Wort war "bald". Fühlst du das Rauschen? Bald kannst du es sehen. Hörst du das Salz in der Luft? Den wogenden Horizont? Alles wird gut. Und nur dein Zauberpuls als Antwort, meinen Arm hinauf und dort angekommen, verharrte er unsicher zwischen Kopf und Brustkorb. Deinen Herzschlag in der Kehle, fühlte ich mich verstanden.

Und nur nach vorn. Durch Felder und dann über Dünen und endlich am Ufer. Und ich wollte sagen, Schau, wie groß es ist! Kannst du das Ende sehen? Oder auch nur erahnen? Wir könnten versuchen, hindurch zu schwimmen und kämen niemals an! Wir könnten uns hierhin setzen und es würde Tag und Nacht und dann Winter und wieder Sommer und wir würden alt werden vielleicht, aber das Meer wäre immer noch genauso unheimlich groß. Und auch meine Liebe wär noch da. Genauso unheimlich groß. Das wollte ich sagen und holte Luft, sah dich an - doch es war nur deine Hand. Ohne Arm, ohne Schulter, nur ein bisschen Isolierband klebte noch daran. Alles wird gut. Aber eine Hand wächst nicht wieder nach. Keine Narbe. Nur ein fühlbares Nichts. Alles wird gut, hab ich gesagt... ob sie dir wohl fehlen? Die fünf Finger, meine Lieblingshand? Ob sie dir wohl fehlt? Ich bin übers Ziel hinausgeschossen. Vielleicht wird alles... Am Ende könnte das Meer doch zurück weichen. Ein Horizont aus Festland könnte auftauchen. Wenn ich nur lang genug schaue. Vielleicht ist auch das Meer nur heimlich groß.

Two girls on a bike

We were just two girls on a bike.

And while I brought you home
you held on tightly.
We breathed and laughed
four lungs
full of being in awe.

The powdered streets
and your mittens
were a testimony
of our recklessness -
January can be part of our spring, too!

Riding through a sleeping city,
the steam clouds
of our breath
trailing behind us...
that was when we took a first sip
of that dizzying happiness.

--

Dieser Monat ist lang. I was afraid of writing songs and losing them with you.

One of these days...

you will find yourself standing in the kitchen in early July cutting strawberry hearts for the person you hope to spend the rest of your life with. And in that precious moment you will not think about the cycle of breaking and healing that got you there. You will not think about all the love letters that you carried around in your chest long before you wrote them. You will not think of the kisses and bruises and dreams and dances and butterflies that seem to be a lifetime away now. You will be cutting strawberry hearts, a believer again. And you will not think about how you fell before. But all your being spells out the beauty of falling and flying.

--

I will teach tomorrow. Not like I taught lessons before. I will teach a topic that is so dear to me, I'm afraid my nervey will kill me. My aim for tomorrow is not that everybody understands. My aim is to make them see how much I love it. To make them see that it is something you can be passionate about. Tomorrow will show if I'm cut out for it after all.

Die Welt lässt sich nicht besiegen

Egal, wie früh wir aufstehen. Egal, wie weit wir gelaufen sind. Die Welt lässt sich nicht besiegen. Am Besten wäre wohl, wenn wir das einsähen. Und die Richtung wechseln. Damit nicht wir am Ende die Besiegten sind.

"You know, I'm all for your desire. I crave the feeling of you wanting me naked, the feeling I get when I hear you gasping... but tonight, can we do something else? I would really need you to hold me without falling asleep right away. I would like you to experience this freakishly demanding need of being in contact with me, just like I experience it. So you could just hold me. And you would want to stay close to me, even if you're uncomfortable lying this way, because in some way you cannot fathom what sleep is for now that you are lying next to me. I would really need that. "

So are we girlfriends then?

You cannot move away. Not now that technically there is a place for you as my physicist-wife. We could be annoyingly nerdy. We could have spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen to songs we're both too young to know. We could throw all our tableware against walls when it gets too unbearable to be at each other's mercy. I could wake you in the dead of night, because early mornings are my thing, and you could hold my hands through the caffeine shock, while I try to join you for a long night. We could be unconventional together. We could think up sweet escape scenarios and arrive at the decision of staying time and again. I could paint a house for you and the colours of a sunrise and we would never move in, but camp in the backyard. We could take ballroom dance classes to embarass your parents on your sister's wedding. We could write endless to-do-lists and then spend the day in bed, because nothing could be more important than that. We could be good together. Really good.

There's just this one thing:
We can't.
You're hung up on that knight of yours and I don't want to get over my ex-girlfriend. So much so, that it makes me nauseous to think the word: Ex-girlfriend.

But let me tell you one thing: There's a really good chance they won't come back. And this thing we're doing right now? That's pathetic. So, you know, once I get over the denial and the anger and the bargaining and the depression... once I get there, I will wake up to see you've been that tad bit quicker. And I will regret it.