a record keeper

WHY I WRITE – a Chuck Wendig prompt

I fell in love with stories.

It hit me one day, without warning.

I remember it perfectly. I was about eight years old, and it was a rainy afternoon in November. Outside, everything was washed grey, silhouettes started dissolving into the murky atmosphere. Dust washed away with dirt water… Even the sunlight through the rain clouded more than it revealed.

Somehow, everything about my childhood seems grey, hollow and vague. I grew up in a socialistic land on the brink of revolution, and its aftermath. Nothing was like it ment to be…

That day, I stood at the balcony door and stared out into the rain. Below, people were busily running around, surviving the strains of everyday life. I thought of my everyday life, and I didn’t like the pictures forming in my mind. I hated my everyday life. The ink stains on my thumb fore- and middle finger itched. I saw no differences, no contrasts, just boundaries and limitations.

That cursed moment I felt my heart bursting with anger, fear and frustration. There was no way I could escape that grayness around me; in me… No matter how far I went, what I did, it won’t rub off. Ever. It was etched under my skin, in the tone of my words, it was the background noise of my dreams. That special kind of grey, it will always be part of me. It will always stay there, dulling my senses, my thoughts, my emotions.

I was lost.

The pain of swallowed glass shards and strung heart kept me company for a quite a few years after that day.

I started writing. That day, I started writing a little story. I don’t remember it any more, only the ruled paper and the unevenly scribbled sentences stretching from one end of the line to the other, in purplish ink.

Something happened. In that domineering conformity of grey, the paper seemed glowing snow white, although I soiled it with my pen. It was different. It was new. It was; I was dumbstruck.

I felt the lash of a whip over my head, a cracking thunder, or  maybe a sudden notion of meaning (though I never had the right words for that, just an overwhelming pull to the Inside-of-whatever-that-Was). I remember how desperate I was, not knowing what to do, or who to tell. What was going on? What happened to me? I kept wondering, how long this state would last. What should it mean to me? Wrecking my brain for a solution, for any solution, I got none…

Thinking back, I’m convinced that something important hid itself. Something that mattered and still matters to me, I guess. But like all (really) important things, it’s invisible, untouchable, not tastable, not audible… I know it’s there, it pulls me.

It still plays hide and seek with me. 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. I dubbed it my core, my everything, my love, my dream.

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…

With time, 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, they were my escape route. I was so happy, that I could explore the infinite silhouette of That-which-refuses-to-show-Itself…

You know, the wonderful thing about stories is, that they manage to still my hunger, my anger, 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´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, I know, it sounds pathetic – it’s 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 a writer, or artist. There is no art in what I´m doing. I´m only recording, what´s happening inside… I may not be a good record keeper 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.

thoughts on shuffle

IMG_3447There are places, which make me stop and think for a while. 

I’ll be more precise.

The feeling they give me, makes me stop. Suddenly I have not enough breath in my lungs and my feet stretch to touch the core of the planet. A weird kind of buzzing fills the space between my ears…

I’ve been here before, haven’t I?

And then I’m empty. It is some kind of blankness. A cold sensation in my stomach. I start to doubt that I’m hermetically locked into my skin. For a moment I’m sure there is a hole somewhere. Something ripped through me, and I didn’t notice. I’m leaking. Or maybe the world is seeping into me. I know it will squeeze me into my every pore, into every wrinkle of my being, pushing me to the outer rim of what uses to me be…

Movement stops.

I fall.

At least, I think it is some kind of falling sensation. A random plummeting to the ground. Downward sucking notion, but without the wet kissing thud at the end. Without hitting any surfaces, without the crashing and breaking, without the impact… Just falling. 

In those moment – I have hope. Hope to find my purpose, my place in the world I inhabit. The hunch I need to grasp the meaning behind all this…being-human thing. It is almost a fully formed thought, a nearly recognized feeling.

I have been here before, haven’t I? 

Isn’t it ironic? I can’t seem to realize it…

brain storms

(Interstellar)

*

I was once trapped.

Caught and bound.

Wrapped in bones,

flesh and blood and skin.

A hostile universe tied

to me, inside of me.

I knew it, deep down,

felt it move.

Felt is grow.

Dressed up into

my own delusions,

in my own pictures

of the world and me-

it’s leather on skin,

thought on fact,

flesh on bone,

time on space…

Good intentions on sins

clean gloves on dirty hands

Me on me.

And another me.

Infinitely.

other day’s argument – rant from a women who understands everything

A friend of mine got himself stuck in a bad situation, between two women. I overheard an argument he had the other day. He said: “Being in love? How is that good? Like telling someone, that he/she  has cancer, but not the very bad kind.

It was like a kick in the teeth. 

That kind of despite-

I mean, I’m the first one to understand, and to emphasize with someone going through the hurt dwelling in relations between humans. …But this? I never thought of loving like this. Cancer, my ass!

Don’t get me wrong. I know love is a shapeshifter.

Sometimes it’s a huge waterfall roaring over the edge, and you can’t escape its  currents, no matter how hard you struggle. 

Sometimes it’s a burning mountain, devouring  everything in its way, sucking out the air of your lungs, boiling your eyes.  

Sometimes it’s a warm meal, waterproof shoes and a coat.

Sometimes just a “Good morning, how are you today?”.

Sometimes it’s a hand to hold, when you’re in pain…

I have tag called: LOVEISTHEPROBLEM. A quote from Aeon Flux, when asked what she knew. Even if didn’t looked like it – I’ve always admired love and lovers. I’ve always marveled to the changes love caused.

I don’t know how it’s different, from other people in love. But when I am – I start to act weirdly.

Parts of me try to be better. That positive feeling sneaking up behind me, and giving me a hug. I’m try to lose fear. Try to be the best I can be. Because the other one deserves nothing from my fear, anger and frustration. 

I try to create a free space for the significant other. A place to come to rest. A place to be true, without expectations, without fear. A place where nothing bad happens, because you  and your needs are welcomed.  The way you are. A place allowing  everything you and your partner are. Fully. Accepted. Embraced. Dealt with. Satisfied. A place without remorse, without shame.

This  is what I think of loving. 

city in gray and white

If I had to turn the other cheek

Hit me, your palms won’t speak –

The color shifts  from white to fire

Your eyes lit, can’t stop to admire

Winter in the skyscraper woods

A dump for our white goods

I wasn’t listening – just letting go …

Some covers left to blow,

hiding from the terror blaze

Does this feeling flow both ways?

Is your heart still opened up?

Our life shown in a smitten closeup

Remember what the people said?

If you don’t fight, you’re already dead

Janus

I can’t stop myself from looking at him – snow white skin, hair, dark as chocolate, topaz eyes borrowed from a bird of prey, soft lips, bowed in a mischievous arch – vibrant memories, which won’t  let me sleep, won’t let me close my eyes. Even if I do, I’ll open them up, asap. Feeling his breath, his gaze peeled to whatever there is to be to be noticed in my face.

Even in the darkness of the room, drawn curtains, and the half moon shining… Even in the solid black mist his eyes seems to glow in that strange orange golden light. He seems to emit it, his faces, his mouthes, his shiny teeth… All screaming curiosity.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I´ve never seen someone fall asleep before.”

“What? Never? Why?”

“I never sleep. So I’m curious.”

“Suit yourself.” Indeed, I’m exhausted, and ´bout to fall asleep. “So you never sleep, hm? Do you – ever dream?” My lips move lazily. The bed sheets still hot and messed up. Feeling heavy on my skin.

“Yes. But mine are different from yours. I do not lose myself doing so.” His voice softens, moves closer somewhere near my left temple. “And when you’ll lose yourself, you’ll be empty – a living, breathing hollow shell. Just waiting.” His voice sounds now like a whisper, moves suddenly from my left to the right ear… Of course -forgot- two mouthes. Two tongues. Strangely, they sound the same.

Can’t open my eyes, sleep burns inside of them. It is a soft warm black, that keeps dripping, dissolving into my mind. “Mhm. What for?” Words drop out hazily, I just breathe them out.

“For me, to do as I please… Shhh, now. Go back to sleep…”

sensory deprivation

There am I.

Absent-mindedly sitting on a pillow, a glass of milk in my hand. “Cheers.” Yeah, talking to myself too. Not the best first impression, I guess.

Sitting on the ground, staring at the snow white wall in front of me. The carpet is white too, so is the door, and the window frame. In this room, everything is white – everything, but me.

But I do not look at myself. Never seeing myself. Which is, bluntly said, a quite a normal thing. I mean, who can?

But I see the blankness. Bone dry, lurking white army of shallow thoughts. Just drifting, drifting to sink and rise again. In the rhythm of my personal space-time, spent here. Only by myself. One breath after another, ticking away – never to return.

Sensory deprivation is something one should get used to, before trying to spend hours in such a place. Cause it’s a torture at first. Cause it’s boring. Deadly boring. Insanely boring.

But then, your brain starts to entertain itself with patches of color, music playing in your head – if you’re lucky, it’s music you like- patterns of geometric forms, weird thoughts popping up in your mind.

It’s entertainment… Nothing more.