Time blurs in the haze,
spreading viscously
and settling over days
that now seem endless
and almost uneventful.
Every day is a Sunday evening.
This is the idleness
we once called for.
But melancholically we now
dream back past into tomorrows.
My being was
in the stranglehold of grind
and it partially cracked.
I collected the shards,
put them together
into a new story.
I am the creator
of my story –
only passion guides me.
I am no longer a narrative
that people find
good enough to like.
What remains?
The moments and the wisdom
that cling to all fractures.
I’ve already been
a lot of people in my life.
After all, it’s easier
to play a role and simply
represent the expectations
of others in order to be liked.
But the hardest thing
is to be myself.
But who am I actually?
I break down the sum
of my thoughts and desires
into their individual parts
and write a play with myself
as the main character.
I lock the door.
The buzzing fades.
The burden of all the
outer expectations drops.
Here the flow ends
and here it springs –
where reality confides
to imagination,
distance to intomacy
and reason to frenzy.
There I am at home.
Your expectations deflected me
from the spectrum of pleasures.
I stowed my desires
into a glossy shell
to feign conformance.
I deluded myself.
Daylight beems illumed
the levied masquerade
in the brightest fakery.
Lastly I got rid of the shreds to
let my desires radiate vividly.
Her whole existence
lived in this song.
When it sounded through her phone,
she jumped off the bench.
Here in the park behind the church.
She reached out her hand
and let him in to dance.
Once I used to wait
until people turned their backs on me.
Times have changed.
Nowadays I cut grimaces
right into their faces,
but they can’t see it.
We‘re a swarm of toilers
coughed up from the gear
and flushed into the hiatus.
So we trip into dusk
but still in a daze
from the humdrum.
The revelry is wide and tempting.
And I evade the herd
to hole up on my sofa.
Yesterday we met
as different people.
We’ve grown
and now we bloom.
It’s the shift
that connects us
and it’s the memories
that guide us.
The blooming memories
will be the fruit,
it casts the seed
for new joints.
I just didn’t listen to him
when he complained once again
that I never listened to him.
and the rest is your imagination
Based in Berlin I write and draw about my everyday impressions and thoughts. I earn my living as a content director, planning digital communication for ministries and public organisations.
