time again.

how strange.

I look at the dust glittering around me – it looks just as it always did, and yet so different, crispy clear, and in that ever so slightly off balance between harmony and chaos that tugs so exquisitely at my chest. I examine every grain, and it seems to be in the same place as it was the last time I looked at it. I move through them, to see if maybe they aren’t just aligning in a particular way from where I happened to be – but no, I can see how they shift while I walk around, but but the sensation stays the same. I see stories long past weaving into the present, and the roots of my tree going deep. The fabric is torn in just the right places, the flowers budding and wilting while looking just right all through it. I blow gently into the cloud, it bursts into giggles and floats around me.

How strange. Really weird.
I put on my face and leave.

 

wie seltsam.

Ich schaue in die den Staub, der um mich herum glitzert – er sieht aus wie immer, und doch so anders, scharf und klar, in diesem nur leicht schiefen Gleichgewicht zwischen Harmonie und Chaos, welches so hervorragend in meiner Brust zieht. Ich betrachte jedes Korn, es scheint am genau gleichen Ort zu sein wie immer. ich gehe hindurch, um zu sehen, ob sie vielleicht nicht nur von dort, wo ich stand, sich auf eine bestimmte Weise anordneten – aber nein, ich sehe, wie sie sich verschieben, während ich mich bewege, doch das Empfinden bleibt. Ich sehe Geschichten aus der Vergangenheit, die sich in die Gegenwart weben, die Wurzeln meines Baumes in der Tiefe. Der Stoff ist an genau den richtigen Stellen zerrissen, die Blüten knospen und welken und sehen dabei genau so aus, wie sie auszusehen haben. Ich puste sanft in die Wolke, sie zerstiebt in einem Kichern und schwebt weiter um mich herum.

Wie seltsam. Wirklich eigenartig.

Ich lege mein Gesicht auf und gehe.


it is a strange thing, music. all the things I could never say, that were trapped in my brain, tongue refusing

I sing them, scream them to the sound of the strings thrumming

fear and hate and pain

and people will tell me it’s beautiful. 

Continue reading

it is a strange thing, music. all the things I could never say, that were trapped in my brain, tongue refusing

I sing them, scream them to the sound of the strings thrumming

fear and hate and pain

and people will tell me it’s beautiful. 

Continue reading

it is a strange thing, music. all the things I could never say, that were trapped in my brain, tongue refusing

I sing them, scream them to the sound of the strings thrumming

fear and hate and pain

and people will tell me it’s beautiful. 

Continue reading

tidying up.

where do you put
trophies of past victories,
of battles courageously fought
when you had to admit defeat
after all?

where do you put the memories of a past
when the hurt they cause is
the only thing that reminds you that you’re strong, after all.


dots and lines.

we move differently in this world. we see obstacles where you find none, where you just charge your way through we need a workaround. we need more time, we need to think, we need to put energy into it while you just breathe and move on. we need to tell our bodies what to do, and we need to tell our minds to make all the connections we deem necessary. those may not be the connections you’d make, but then, you do charge through where we need to walk around. sometimes our bodies do not respond – maybe because the task we gave it is too large, too substantial, maybe because we moved the wrong levers. it is a delicate thing, this body, so resilient, and it takes a lifetime to map it into our minds, all that was, that is and will be.

so we may tend to take more time, since the way we walk is so much longer than yours. we may stumble more often, usually out of the blue. you may help us up, if that is your thing, all the while wondering what it is that may have caused us to stumble. why would you have stumbled here? you look around, and do what we all do, you map the experience into your mind, in case you should ever happen to be in a similar place. but what you see is not what we see. and by applying your map to us, you may not find the consistency in the pattern. erratic. random. too much, not enough. we do try to accommodate, too. but by applying our map to you, we do not find the constistency in your pattern. but you are more. so we are slow.

but ways are not linear. at least not unless you manage to fold time and space. so even though we stumbled, even though we are slow, we may end up where you wanted to go much quicker. it’s not a shortcut. it’s just that our dots are connected in different ways. just try to imagine how for us, the dots are just next to each other in this fabric. you will see how our patterns must turn out differently, even if all the dots are the same.

 

 

 

 


tracing trauma.

hello. i know it feels like we’ve never met, but you’ve been here before. i know it sounds hard to believe, everything feels so new, the colours are so bright, the edges so sharp. you struggled so hard to find this place, and you’ve been hoping so much to find something here – just something, anything. that one little piece you have been missing so much, that one missing piece you need so badly to feel whole again.

so here’s the truth.

you already have it. it’s there, in your own hand, the hand you have been holding closed so tightly, for so long. it’s always there. you just don’t dare to look.

you’ve already been here. you already found the missing piece. i know, it hurts. it’s not what you’ve been hoping for. and it won’t make you whole. because sadly, this is the life you have, and no single place, no single thing, no memory, no knowledge can change this. this is your life, and it is full of pain, it has always been.

there are no short cuts. maybe second chances.

yes, this is your life. those are your memories. this is really happening to you.

now close your hand and go. until we meet again.


Go home and think.

I don’t dream of places to go. I dream of going home.

As long as I remember I felt out of place. The only place where I can be myself is inside my head. Every time I leave, I have to twist and tweak, turn around until I fit, and then hold the pose until I break down. Talk more, but not that much. I don’t hear you, why are you screaming? Why so many questions? Why do you need to know? Why, why why? Explore, don’t go there. No, that sound you hear doesn’t exist, no, you must have imagined that, there is no such thing, no, there are no monsters, monsters under your bed.

There was no sudden realization that I was not at home here. I just always knew. But it’s okay, we all like to take a trip from time to time, go, explore. Challenges, you know, experiences. Sometimes we get too cheeky. Sometimes we spend too much time creating ourselves. I guess there is such a thing as too… much.

Oh, if only I had known. I was just right, but the world was all off. And the monsters all too real.

Every night, every night. They would visit me, torture me, and I fought, I gave my all, and tried so hard. I bled from a thousand scratches, and yet I just heard: No. It’s nothing. So I heard nothing. Saw nothing. Said nothing. Nothing was true. Nothing was there. I was there. I was nothing.

Nothing hurts.

So why look for something new? Why look for tastes and smells and other sensations? It all feels the same, it all feels like nothing, and nothing hurts.

I don’t look for places to go. I want to go home.

 

 


In Indras Netz.

«Aufgehoben habe ich dich, jetzt will ich dich mitnehmen, ganz nah an meinem Bauch, will dich entknautschen und glätten und deine alten Narben streicheln und zuhören, wenn sie ihre Geschichte erzählen. dich sehen will ich, dich erkennen, dich in deiner Zartheit und Schönheit halten…»

Schal schmecken meine eigenen Worte in meinem Mund, wiedergekaut, schon zu oft ausgespuckt. Und dennoch drängen sie sich immer wieder empor, füllen mich aus, bis ich glaube zu bersten, wenn ich ihnen nicht den Weg freigäbe.

Ich bin müde. Wie oft schon stand ich hier, immer am selben Ort, und es ist nur ein schwacher Trost zu wissen, dass ich nie mehr dieselbe bin. Die Runden im Matsch, ich erinnere mich, an das Schmatzen, mit denen sich meine nackten Zehen aus der feuchten Umarmung lösen. An das Wasser, wie es langsam an meinen Schenkeln leckt. An die Farben in der Dunkelheit, nachdem es mich verschlungen hat. An das abrupte Splittern auf den Kieseln danach: wieder und wieder fand ich mich an diesem Ufer, an dieser Schwelle, und wieder und wieder tat ich dieselben Schritte, stürzte mich hinein, langsam, bedächtig und sehenden Auges, widerstrebend, aus freiem Willen.

Ich knie mich hin und spüle meinen Mund aus bevor ich anfange zu beten.

Teil 1: Seepferd und Meerjungfrau.

Teil 2: Atlantis//eine Fortsetzung.

Teil 3: Zurück.

Teil 4: Spuren.


Worte sind immer noch Zauber, oder: Segen und Fluch.

Thrice I say and done.

Wenn du in den Spiegel schaust werde ich dich anblicken, und du wirst sehen, wie du aussiehst: In all deiner Schönheit, mit all deinen Fehlern, unerbitterlich, ehrlich.

Wenn du die Augen schliesst werde ich auf dich warten, an der Pforte zu deinem Schlaf, und du wirst alles sagen, was du schon immer sagen wolltest. Und ich werde zuhören, geduldig, wartend, stumm, bis die Worte dir ausgehen und Leere dich heimsucht: erst dann biete ich dir Geleit.

Und wenn du die Augen wieder öffnest werde ich da sein: In der Luft die du atmest und im Wasser das du trinkst, im ersten Bild das du siehst und im ersten Wort das du sagst. Ich werde da sein, in allem was du zu dir nimmst und von dir gibst.

Bis die Zeit endet und der Raum zerfällt: Ich werde da sein, ob du willst oder nicht.