Never is an awfully long time. – Eine Fantasie

Wieder ein Blick ins Postfach. Keine Mail von dir.

Es ist 23:04.
Ob du in dem Buch liest?

Es ist eine Nacht mit wenig Schlaf. Dafür mit Tränen. Ich male mir unser Wiedersehen aus. Noch mehr Tränen. Dann Lachen. Weil wir ja wissen, dass wir zusammen gehören.

23:47. Leerer Posteingang.

Ich lese das Buch sehr langsam. Seite für Seite. Ich suche nach Erklärungen. Nach einer Logik, die ich begreifen kann. Nach einem Code, mit dem wir wieder ganz werden können. Es gibt ihn nicht.

23:48. Immer noch keine Antwort.

Es fühlt sich gut an, dass du meinen Tipp annimmst. Erkennst du auch Gefühle von dir wieder? In welchem der beschriebenen Typen erkennst du dich?

0:12. Immer noch keine Mail. Vielleicht fühlst du dich von meinen Gedanken an dich unter Druck gesetzt. Mein Hirn schlägt neue Kapriolen des Irrsinns.

Backflash. Es ist Winter. Du bist allein. Du brauchst Hilfe. Wir dirigieren dich am Telefon in den nächsten Zug. Du bist hier. Du heilst. Eine Fantasie.

Immer wieder der Wunsch, dich retten zu können.

0:32. Gähnende Leere im Postfach.

Rette dich selbst. Ich kann es nicht. Will es nicht. Habe mit mir zu tun.

1:07. Kein Wort von dir. Mein Herz wird schwer.

Meine Jahresplanung ist toll. Ich erkenne mich als wichtigsten, integralen Bestandteil meines eigenen Lebens. Wie neu! Es geht um mich. Nur um mich! Um Urlaub. Um Freunde. Um Bücher. Um Musik. Mein Leben. Mein Körper. Meine Zeit.

1:58. Du fehlst.
Ich reiße mich zusammen und verschiebe das Checken meiner Mails um eine Minute.

1:59. …

Zwischenzeitlich habe ich dich aus der Depression gerettet. Alles erzählt. Gebeichtet. Widersprochen. Zugehört. Wahrgenommen. Gelacht. Die Tabletten sind im Klo herunter gespült und wir haben Pizza bestellt. Wir lümmeln und schmatzen gemütlich im Bett. Schulter an Schulter. Die Beine in einander verschlungen. Keine Zeit, kein Ort sind wichtig. So fühlt sich zu Hause an.

2:47. Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.

Never is an awfully long time.


A whiff of Christmas 

It’s a Saturday in December. People crowd the streets and the Christmas market. Everybody seems happy to stroll among the huts and booths where a thousand superfluous things are sold. I recently listened to a German comedian on YouTube, mocking the Germans for their annual haul of overpriced stuff on Christmas markets. The so called Stehrümchen. Stuff that nobody needs, let alone buys except in those four weeks before Christmas when suddenly even Filz looks snug and homely. Stehrümchen. Only original in a deep Rhenish dialect. 😃
But I am not here for Stehrümchen. I am here, because I need one more xmas present. Quite straight forward, I know what I’m looking for and I want to get it over with. My couch and netflix are calling loudly and seductively.

The girl at the booth selling scarfs and fine cloth from middle Eastern countries is helpful yet helpless with my request for a men’s scarf that is warm in winter yet equally suitable for summer, neither too long nor square, rather light-coloured with a tinge of blue or maybe orange. No shiny applications or obtrusive patterns, please. After a while she asks the friendly owner of the shop for help and he takes over.

I like him, a middle-aged Pakistani with an irrefutable taste for bargaining.

We discuss colours and patterns. He praises the items he pulls out from under the counter. Not the ordinary scarves and cloth on display, but finer fabrics, less mainstream. We get along and enjoy our conversation. He senses a good deal, I enjoy his calm friendliness.

Once we get talking about the prices, I back off from most items, as fine as they are. I tell him what I’m willing to pay maximum and now the real bargaining begins. After a good deal of arguing, I pay a good deal more than I wanted to for a scarf that admittedly IS very nice.

The guy hands over the bag and asks me whether I would like a scarf for myself, as well.

I look at the shiny and colourful things from distant countries that smell of Thousand and one Nights and sigh. There’s a glass green scarf with modest ornaments in flowery colours similar to the one my dad gave me three years ago for Christmas. And a hundred more oriental shades in silk and merino and finely woven cotton …

I tell him that I bought this one for my dad who needs it more than I do…

… He continues showing me marvellous patterns and colours …

… But I’m glad I can make him happy and …

How about this one young lady, this dark blue looks like the deep ocean next to your brown hair

… And that’s more important this year than another decoration for myself.

He pauses.

You made me very happy., he says. Thank you. 

We smile at each other for a while.

I thank him for our warm encounter and turn around.

Merry Christmas!, he says.

I stop, turn around once more and wave. Yes, there was a whiff of Christmas in the air.

ہربانی. Thank you.

Feeling good

So. Now that therapy is nearing its end, I might as well come forward and exercise some frolicking thought games that are supposed to light up my droopy disposition. 

Having readily disposed of 15% of my control urge (on a piece of paper in a box – yes, venturesome me), I feel I should fill that void with something good. Here are three things that were good today. 

I finished a task at work and found out that I really like working on that kind of process. 

What made me be the lucky one to get that task done? I guess, once I find the concentration, I’m happy meddling with meticulous tiny fractions of information, extract them from a larger text and piece them together to a new form. 

Feeling accurate and nerdy here…

Then Peter uploaded his application as BT candidate and received lots of good reactions on it.

Why’s that good for me? Well, the application is really good and I had my hand in it rounding it off and I feel proud that he follows his goals and hope he’ll be successful when the Bavarian Landesliste is voted in two weeks. 

Feeling melancholic butterflies…

And then I made my dad happy when he found my ‚keep up your spirits‘ postcard in the mail. 

Feeling good.

Bad news

​Old men doing their cocksure manipulation again. It’s unbelievable and I’m truly worried for what is to come over the next years. 

We desperately need to find ways to deal with „post fact“ communication in order to make sure democracy, solidarity and tolerance, human rights and nothing less but a peaceful society for generations to come do not fall victim to the antics of some evil old souls. 

Closing time

Train ride at late hour. Tom Waits is singing a melancholy closing time, putting me in the right mood to roam in between thoughts.

Slowly, the train crawls though the grey suburbia of some German town. No housing. Just fields. The odd factory building, at hazy night light assuming an almost portly stature. Around it there’s empty space. Anywhere, yet nowhere. Can’t see what’s in front of me or what I’ve left behind.

… and a lazy old tomcat on a midnight spree, all that you left me was a melody …

It is dark outside. Wafts of mist close in on the autumnal surroundings. Funnel-shaped, they billow in warm, orangey street lantern light. The atmosphere is spectral. Serene. Shapes born from my thoughts gently roam in rhythm with the train’s rattling.

Tom is replaced by Bruce whose words speak my telltale heart.

… may your precious blood bind me, Lord as I stand before your fiery light …

There’s always been darkness.

As well as all exceeding, joyful light. Noone‘s ever known my fantasy world. Of imagination, peace and trust. Of love and rhythm. Of pictures and stories, of playfulness and blinking awe before the vast knowledge to be gathered in this boundless universe. Of an all embracing love for the natural world and the possibilities of human imagination and creativity.

… may I feel your arms around me. May I feel your blood mix with mine.
A dream of life comes to me; like a catfish dancing on the end of my line …

Long gone.

Bruce again. Ol‘ boss always finds the right words to save a life within 180 seconds.

There‘s a way to come to terms with one’s own melancholia. I’m sure. Must be.
Maybe you would understand. Would I?

Aren‘t our ways of being haunted – our beliefs in calmer times, equally vast?

Your demons sure are different from mine. Could you share yours with me? Would you be prepared for mine? In a world we create of our own?

… sky of blackness and sorrow. Sky of love, sky of tears
sky of glory and sadness. Sky of mercy, sky of fear
sky of memory and shadow. Your burning wind fills my arms tonight
sky of longing and emptiness. Sky of fullness, sky of blessed life …

A fooled heart, beating fast in search of new dreams.