by night

I’ve always been afraid of the dark.

My whole life I was scared when the lights went out. When the day dissolved into the night, I crawled, as fast as I could, under my blankets, leaving my reading lamp on. Often the whole night.

But things change…

There is no reading lamp – not anymore. No blankets. I sit in my chair, smoke and wait for the dusk to come. The grayness descends so slowly, carefully, not to scare anyone away.

Emerging from the business of midday, from the productivity others use to care for, the twilight spawns. Slowly unfolding, growing… As if breaking up the surface of  reality, the fuzziness within and around things reveals itself.

In those moments I feel my heart beating stronger, louder, faster… As if it would  respond to a call, I did not hear in the first place. Ill-defines movements under a dust layer. Left alone, for so many centuries. Left to feel despair, to feel quilt, to feel … myself, my flaws.

why a storyteller

I fell in love with stories. It hit me one day, without warning. I was bout eight years old. A rainy afternoon in November. Outside everything was grey – and I mean everything. I started writing. I still know exactly, what it felt like. The lash of a whip over my head, cracking thunder –  maybe a sudden notion of meaning (though I never had the right words for that, just an overwhelming pull to the Inside-of-whatever-I-Was).

I remember how desperate I was, not knowing what to do… Or who to tell? Speechless, I kept wondering if this state would last, and what it should mean to me. Wrecking my brain for a solution, for any solution, I got none…

In there, something important hid itself. Something that mattered and matters. Possibly only to me, but it matters. I know it, I can nearly smell it. But like all real important things – it is invisible, untouchable, untastable, not audible…  It makes me crazy! It is on the tip of my tongue, and I´m not able to reveal it to the world nor to myself. The struggle began: I wrote, it ran through my fingers like sand. I wrote, it changed shape. I wrote, it dissolved into thin air. So I wrote…

But I´ve achieved tools of revelation : words, languages, pictures, stories. In that sensible time of my life, I fell for stories. I truly did, as soon, as I realized, they ment freedom. That I could explore the infinite silhouette of That-which-refuses-to-show-Itself…

The wonderful thing about stories is, that they manage to still my hunger, and my anxiety. Which is pretty impressive, I can tell you that!

I´m not sure if I have a style, or talent of any kind. (I didn´t chose any of it). I´m not sure, if I´m even good at what I´m doing, nor that I´m ment to have success with it. But that is not the point. What I do, I need to do.

I´ve got a regular job, which keeps my brain distracted from this obsession. It distracts me from my tracks and fakes my needs. It holds up my hunt. Frustrating that is, being caged up like this… I´m a physician. I have to help others. 

Can´t wait that others will help me one day, cause that´s not happening. Never does. Writing is my own medicine. Storytelling is my doctor. It keeps me grounded. It keeps me happy and… sane. Yes it sounds pathetic – therapy. As it is, it helps me to observe ´n recognize, what I´m not able to see under my own power.

I don´t think, I´m an artist. There is no art in what I´m doing. I´m only recording, what´s happening on the inside… I may not be a good recordkeeper either, but I try. So my writing is more a documentary work. It is proof, that I exist… Somehow…

Does this make any sense? I don´t know.