think like a child

Stories

Things, that leave an impression in the soft mind of a child.  It’s what matters most.

Those important things… defining everything about love, death, suffering. Defining what you know, about your place, about who you should be. 

Imprinting weakness and strength, desires into the germling of your future.

… Who would bear with such responsibility?

…Who would ignore such an important tasks?

puny guide to stray

The first time I said, I was a stray, was more than a decade ago.

It was after I realized that everything I called home had vanished.

Don’t get me wrong, it was all there, right under my nose. Nothing really disappeared… Not completely though.  Nothing big had changed. But a special something was missing.

I could not attach anymore.

Don’t know why. There was no place I could  fit in. Not anymore.

It was gone. Forever, obliterated from one day to the other.

I was lost. I lost my way…

Looking back, this was the saddest thing happen to me, I guess. It was  killing me.

In my grief about losing home, I started  dashing forward, claiming myself a wanderer. I pretended not to be thrown out of my little paradise. I pretended to explore. I pretended to be free to roam endlessly.

That’s what air roots are about. 

Not the freedom I chose. That kind of freedom is… a lie. I could be free anywhere, if  I’d chose to. Naturally, with all consequences.

The air-root-freedom was just a transient freedom, not needing me to change. Not questioning my motif  was leading nowhere. Merely, I was running away.

I told you. It was an excuse… Compensating, not coping.

There was the glorious life of a stray, without attachments. Very tempting, I’d give you that anytime. No one I needed, no one I cared for, no one I was responsible for/to.  Swampy  sweet ignorance. It always tasted a bit coppery, but as sweet as honey… 

*

But look at it differently:

Did you ever see a true stray?

Not trusting anyone, wandering  around aimlessly… Gaunt, hungry and exhausted. Filthy opportunist, if you ask me. 

Did you ever see how the life of a stray ends? No? It happens every day, every week, every month, every year. You should observe. I’d tell you honestly, if it wouldn’t make my guts twitch…

It ends in trash.

Between trash…. It’s where strays go to end.

Never belonging anywhere.

Never going to be missed.

sticky

My writings transforms to a ball of glue, when I write something meaningful to me. It gets sticky and heavy… Like caramel to your teeth. Struggling… You can’t scratch it off, even if you try with tip of tongue, or nail of your index or pinky – just sticking there  and disturbing.

Ugh, agglutinated words, clinging to my fingers, lips and my tongue. Gummed up in the back of my throat. Clogging the way out… 

Wheezing. 

Again. The freedom to breathe is what keeps me going. A cheap freedom, if you ask me. It’s nothing I fought for.

Why can’t I let them go?

Choking on silence… Eventually the wheezing stops. 

Eventually it transforms to sobbing. 

Eventually it fades away into the approaching summer storm.

punishment

I’ve known the stars,

as I known the fates

of every woman and man.

-All traded…

Their precious time

for a tiny bit knowledge.

How easy to fool!

How easy to betray…

I gave them the science-

how to identify

the minutes they expire

 

Of all punishments-

this is the harshest

Becoming a human,

forced to dream, to desire.

Dying when the stars

go out, one by one…

 

delusional wisdom

Why are the nights brighter and less delusive, than broad daylight?

Is it because I know it’s a dream I’m observing?

Is it the lack of cause and effect?

Is it the knowledge of not being punished?

Am I innocent? Can I convince myself, that I did no harm?

Did it ever cross my mind, that I won’t stop suffering?

Will I ever give it a rest?

The only chance my heart gets to speak to me – the only truth and desires – is when I dream. And I am not listening! Not even then!

What does that tell you about me?

a sunny day

Above warm stones

yellow leaves scattered

exhaled into the bleached blue

under the surface of today’s sky-

humans weren’t made to rule

only born and cursed to vanish

 

I lack this kind of faith –

I wasn’t made for loyalty

there’s no belief left in me,

not in days or nights,

not in dusks or  dawns

not in blood or flesh –

 

I’ll be awaited in the darkness

petrified by the eternal light

into the bleakness of body ´n soul.

IMG_0532Oriental turtle dove – Streptopelia orientalis

* * *

My favorite addiction is a peculiar hunger…

A hunger for new experiences, new fragrances, tastes and sounds. New optical and tactile impulses… New atmospheres to dip in and dive deep. Soaking up, what the world has to give. The new, the unknown, the strange – bring it on…

Better I rephrase that – my favorite addiction is the confrontation with the strangeness of the world. Meeting it head on.

For me, it is most relaxing to be thrown into a world I do not understand. – Literally. (Well, that might happen on a daily base anyway… because I do not understand the world around me

A language I do not speak, is music, heard for the first time. Opaque and mysterious.

And I love mysteries. I love music. Every kind… The melodious nobility of Japanese, the verbal courtship dance of Portuguese, the smooth sliding of English over rocks and facts (someone forced you into  the Seven-mile-Boots while you were sleeping), the soft marcels of  Italian, the sharp tugging and turning of German…

– It’s like a huge disco party you are not invited, but you sneak in anyway. Or you play Peeping-Tom over illusionary security cameras.

Does this make any sense? The worlds rockets away beside me, and my finger tips brush along, on its surface…

But it’s not only the language, it is the background noises. The way people cross the streets, the metro jingles, the barking of dogs, the birds in another sky. Differing from country  to country – they differ unbelievably. For example, the common raven laughs at you in Japan (Ha-Ha-Ha), but it crows (Kra-kra-kra) at you in Europe. Even the doves coo  in different ways.

You see, there is this fundamental feeling of difference. Of being unlike others around me- the feeling of profound isolation.

Although I know that it  is delusional, on an emotional level, it is my reality. No matter where I go, it keeps me company, therefore it must be originating in me. I’m the epicenter of this (maybe) individual drive.

Now that I think of it…

It thrills me to be looped out, to be clueless. – How irritating…

I observe. I (pretend to)  filter information, like the world is a black box, forcing my own thoughts into it, interpreting, reading notions and impulses…

– Maybe it’s just genuine ignorance…