Poesie Tagebuch

you are a long-winded path, full of adventure,
a cramped space packed to the top with clutter,
the sun rising after a night of staying up,
a scent that doesn’t fade,
hugs so tight they could crush me,
but touches so soft i barely feel them;
are mountains and forests,
and creatures within them.

you are cold wind on hot skin,
chasing the leaves on the autumn floor,
twirling them up in the air with hurry,
time that is always running out,
hair that tingles beneath my fingertips,
sad eyes that follow, full of worry;
you are parties and people,
then moments of silence.

you are dogs of all sizes, jumping,
and castles yet to be discovered,
a tree with many circles,
so many layers yet to be uncovered,
the freshness of spring when a new year awaits,
or the scent of a new book,
that i am afraid to read.

all of these are things i love,
and cherish with all of my heart.
but all of my heart will not be enough,
for that which you seek beats much stronger,
much faster than mine.

for my heart is filled with waves of the ocean,
with tea and books that have been read,
not once but ten or twenty times,
no secrets left within.

i am a city skyline,
dotted white clouds on the sunset,
a constant quiver in my body,
tremor in my hands,
winter with all of its snowflakes,
a head full of ideas no one hears,
not even you,
for i do not speak them in my time,
and time is a thing that i fear.

i am the murmur of voices,
cold hands in constant need to be held,
a painting that changes for everyone,
a cat asleep on the counter,
next to cookies and milk,
left outside to go sour,
clumped with indecisiveness.

i am the moon after midnight,
i am the cold that creeps in,
to counter all of the warmth,
you try – so desperately – to give;
crave the comfort of few,
rather than the pressure of many,
am the one that goes slow and with care,
never rushing into things.

we are too different to complete,
the puzzle yet to be built,
and too similar to clash,
with teeth and fists and guilt.
instead we hold ends of a string now,
you inching towards me,
as i lean away,
in fear of what i cannot give you,
for you are a summer’s last blue day,
and i am the redness of autumn,
come to take your place.

so now i sit and i ponder:
it isn’t what i do not want,
but rather what i cannot part with,
and it isn’t what i do not love,
but rather what i refuse to keep.
it isn’t what you lack,
for you have all i could ask for,
it is simply that i cannot take things,
that i know i cannot give you.

I feel,
often, anxious about the fact,
that what I leave behind,
in this world,
could be permanent.

Anxious of the idea that I,
at any given moment,
can be approached by a stranger,
or even a friend,
a lover, perhaps,
and asked about something
I have left behind –
a permanent object,
or fact,
or truth,
that I have created,
and then forgotten.

And even those
which I have not forgotten
bring me this sense of anxiety;
they hold this power
I cannot grasp
and do not wish
to possess,
because they make me feel real.

They make me feel permanent,
in a way,
that I do not wish to feel,
for I much prefer the idea
that I am a fleeting moment,
an unreal form,
just an idea,
that has never been given a physical form.

But if I write –
and share this writing –
at any time
someone can read it
and know I exist,
and know that I wrote it,
and see inside my heart
or mind
or both,
from which this piece of writing stems,
and they can ask me about it.

Or ask those who come after.
They can ask,
or even praise,
what I have created,
and I will not know how to react,
because I do not wish
to be permanent –
not in this way,
and not in any.

For the third time i open a page, search for words to write.
Nothing i write feels right, or enough, or accurate
To capture what is in my head.
What is in my head feels like nothing at all,
That’s why it is so hard to capture.
Here is a black hole in my head that is so very full of things, growing every time it absorbs another,
Yet we call it a hole,
Call it a void.

it wants me to write, i want to write
everyone thinks i need a break before i break
but i know i can’t afford one
i am stuck in a loop of
“other people have it worse!
There is war, and there is starvation, and there are people with suicidal thoughts,
If i just died then they could suffer in peace!”
Then i realise it’s all the same.

We shouldn’t compare ones struggle to another’s.
It’s not fair, everyone has a different tolerance level, a different strength –
or weakness.
If i grasp at the hem of the gown in front of me,
Drag myself up from the ground,
Readjust the crown on my head,
Open my eyes fully to the light:
Then I’ll see nothing has changed at all.
Not for the worse.
not for the better.

My hand looks blotched and spotted,
Pale and then red, diseased, dry, CRACKED.
Even the ring that sits upon my finger,
A ring of three kinds of gold,
Meant to represent something,
Has made the chafe and dryness look worse.

I cried the day i got it, on my birthday.
I cried for no reason at all.
There never is a reason, i think now, because i can’t remember.
And the issue is that i never remember, that’s why i keep opening a new page to write the same words
The same damn words I’ve written twice, thrice, a thousand times.
The same trouble for years
And once I’ve written it, i forget it.

Every time i am surprised to read my words i hate myself a little more,
Because they are my words and i wrote them
From my empty black hole head to my cracked and chapped hands
Onto a blank page I’ve filled many times before.
Again.

I should stop eating, i say,
As i reach for a sandwich.

>Create new
>Add song
>Add song
>Add song
.          (This song already sits in five others)
>Add song
.          (This one too
.          Most of them do
           This is an almost exact copy of previous ones)
>Delete
>Create new
>Add song
>Add song
.           (I’m doing it again
.            I crave that which I already have
.            I want to experience it for the first time again
.            Then I realise I cannot
.            So I listen to the old one
.            It isn’t satisfying
.            It is too comfortable
.            It is too depressing)
Create new.

Es scheint mir als würde ich
etwas verlieren, einen Teil von mir,
den ich früher sehr gut kannte,
der nach und nach zu etwas Fremden,
etwas Entferntem wurde,
ohne, dass ich es zunächst mitbekommen
oder merken hätte können.
Wenn ich das Stück in meiner Hand betrachte
wirkt es deformiert; sieht aus
als würde es nicht mehr an den Fleck passen,
aus dem es vor langer Zeit gefallen ist;
sich gelöst hat. Wo kommt es hin?
Wenn ich stehe; ein paar Socken halte,
von welchem einer seit Jahren verschollen war,
und sie nun wieder vereint werden –
trage ich sie beide?
Schmeiße ich sie fort?

Wir meinen zu wissen-
Doch wissen nicht was wir woll‘n
Wollen wir es wissen?
Wissen wir was wir soll‘n?
Wenn ich weiß,
Was ich weiß,
Aber nicht wer ich bin?
Wo führt uns das hin?

Wissen wir was wir nicht wissen?
Was alles wollen wir nicht missen?
Wenn ich sage ich weiß nicht,
Was ich will - dann meine ich,
Ich weiß was ich NICHT will.
Oder weiß ich das?

Outside
All is bustling with sound and noise, with light and colour, with touch and feeling.
There are leaves rustling, countries fighting, bombs being dropped.
Colonies retaken, reclaimed.
There is love and war and famine.
People keep talking and talking just talking at me
(and to me)
And I listen.
There are deadlines, there is work, there is expectation and concern.
Something is always happening, outside.
I smile.


Inside
All is silent.
A sewer-rat sits, proud, on his pile of clutter.
Collected over time from the dirty rivers that sludge into the brain.
Rubbish, dropped outside, forgotten about.
He sits and stares outside through the windows that are my eyes.
He watches, he listens, and he snickers smugly with the knowledge:
He is untouchable.
Nothing leaves, it only enters – the noise and destruction from outside.
They are muffled, numbed.
Never killed.
He rules over me – I have no power.
I smile.

Today I have downloaded a new font for myself,
one that looks somewhat like my own writing
but so much neater
and smoother
than my words could ever sound
to anyone’s ears and eyes, I find
myself typing out words that mean little
to nothing,
just to test it out. I feel
a new voice on my tongue, foreign,
yet welcome.
I will make it mine.

Perhaps the possession of this new way of forming letters,
this opportunity,
is the small push I need to create more –
I have not been creating enough, It seems
not much of what I have been creating has been worthwhile
after I complete it
and look back.

A waste of time,
a waste of breath,
a waste of space,
a waste of time.

Why twice?
Because it feels important that way –
repetition, they’ve taught us, is a powerful tool
to convince someone.
Am I convincing myself or am I already convinced?
The word I am looking for is persuasion.
Persuasive devices, they always praised me
for my use of literary devices
in my creative works,
building the wall around me higher

brick by
brick by brick
by brick
until I couldn’t see over it anymore
until the others had risen beyond me,
higher than I can ever grow,
and left me behind on the floor.

Now I stare at my words,
no matter what pretty font they appear in, and feel
a twist of dissatisfaction,
a sense of sadness,
for I am mourning the potential they praised in me
with one hand,
while killing it with the other.

Cute things are cute
Like the colour pink, in cotton candy
At a fair with someone I love.
My big pink hoodie makes me look cute,
That’s what my boyfriend says
And I never considered myself cute
Never wanted to be cute,
Until he said he liked it.
I like small animals, and big ones too,
And sometimes children can also be cute,
Though their crying makes me want to tear my ears off,
And I’m sensitive to their screams.
But I saw a toddler in a bear-hat,
And I love bears, so I liked that.
Sunlight makes me feel happier than grey skies,
Winter is the toughest time in my head.
But winter is my favourite.
Because the sunshine gives me migraines, make my head explode,
Burst into thousands of colours and splatter against all the walls.
Heat makes my skin itch and crawl and sizzle like a sausage on a barbeque.
I don’t want to be burned alive because I fear fire.
But I think I exaggerate that sometimes.
I almost died in a fire in Spain in summer and I’ve struggled in Spain in summer since.
I blame my parents, not the flames.
My parents want me to be cute
Want me to be a girl, that wears lots of pink and has a cute boyfriend
So naturally I’ve always hated that.
But I do like cute things,
And liking cute things is easier than telling someone,
Straight up and to their face,
That more often than not I want to tear my own face off,
And carve out my eyes that are way too small and dull,
And cut out my tongue so it stops embarrassing me.
It always used to be so awfully yellow, and it speaks so much bullshit.
Cute is easier. People like cute.
I’m too tall for cute, and too loud for cute, except when I’m silent,
But silent is not cute: it is worrying
Saying I don’t like people makes me a freak,
While it makes others shy and helpless
Because I should be the role model, the happy one, the responsible one
That guides others out of their misery, and myself into it.
Taking their place and taking their sorrows.
Wouldn’t I love that.
I’ve always made myself that person, so why fight it now
I dug my grave now I have to lie in it and let the maggots in my brain eat me slowly
From the inside.
Like a doll’s head that’s popped off and fallen.
Dolls are cute, are they not?
Little girls like dolls. Little girls are cute.
But I have always hated them.

I am on the inside looking out
I am on the outside looking in
I am on the inside looking in
I am on the outside looking out
I am split in half
I am combined into one
I hear them speak, I’m listening
They speak at me, I do not hear
I hear but I don’t understand
I feel myself fall behind
The wall between me becomes hazy
The distance between me grows
I reach my hand out into nothing
I grasp it and pull
The weight lies in my palm



I blink
My palm is empty
Every step forward brings me miles back
The group is closing around me
The group is closing without me
I am right in the centre and still excluded
I am not like them
They are better than me
They know more than me
I am better than them
I know more than them
But not what I need to know
I am on the inside looking out
Into each of their eyes
And past them still.

Even though I love you, I struggle
to share things I adore
with you,
because they are mine
and only mine,
so very special and unique,
especially the less popular ones,
those you only know because of me,
and thanks to me,
and they should stay mine,
not yours,
not ours,
only my own.

They are my comforts,
they are my solace,
they have been with me
for days and weeks and months and years and
now I hear them on your playlists
along with mine
and I watch them next to you
and I don’t watch them at all
because I am focussing on you and the fact
that your eyes are on the screen,
absorbing the thing I love
and own
and making it yours,
too. It bothers me,
that I cannot have it both ways,
that I cannot share my hobbies and comforts
with someone I love
more than I love these things,
because a part of me thinks that they are too precious
and that they should be mine
and only mine
forever.

I sit not comfortably but better than I type.
The keys familiar to chapped hands,
the noise is rhythmic, soothing tired ears.
A table rests my worn-down legs,
as patiently the evening fades,
the day’s last light slips the horizon’s grasp,
only screen, besides the faint golden glow
from the kitchen; Onion wafts towards me,
my mouth and eyes watering,
accompanied my heart’s clench – in a good way.
He is singing, softly, voice merely a murmur.
My love is singing, hips swaying
gently in time with the stir of a wooden spoon,
cooking to fill the void within my stomach,
while his tune fills the void of my heart.

I do not want to exist
and I want to be held
at the same time
I want to be held without existing
until I'm ready to exist again
and that is so selfish because
I know I don't deserve it because
I am not even real but
you deserve the world
and that's not me
I don't exist.

Everything we have noticed
about the blue house
which is actually green
but is called Blue House
by Everton
in Liverpool
is that:
there is no free parking
despite it being promised
theres a condom missing
from the pack in the bedside drawer
used presumably
for the porn on the youtube history
amidst pokemon, and fighting games,
by the man whose items
litter the bathroom windowsill.

Much like myself,
the house is green on the outside
but very blue on the inside
and the stairs are very hard
to climb down, but not up
and the key box was not locked
but took a while to open
regardless,
and the door was kind of broken

I can no longer read,
because I can no longer write.
I cannot write in a way that satisfies
me but I can read
words that sound like they should be mine,
that string together
in sentences I wish had sprung
from my own pen.

I can read a page or two
and think that this that I
am reading must be peak writing
and then I think
that I can never achieve it
because it has already been achieved.
I will not write
like that.
I can no longer write,
or I can no longer read.
Maybe I can no longer live,
if I cannot read, or write,
or speak.

Nur eine Umarmung bevor ich gehe;
Weg von zwanzig Jahren Geborgenheit,
Und Schutz, und Brötchen und Rüblikuchen.
Von Quiz-Show-Raten und Tanzen in der Küche,
Vom Laufrad-nachrennen; von Eis im Gesicht,
Weg vom Mama-Taxi, oder Mamis Tatu.

Weg von lachen bis es Tränen sind,
Von Socken auf dem Fußboden, seit Tagen,
Von aufgekratzten Knien und Pflastern,
Von vergessenem Salz oder zu viel Zucker,
Vom gemeinsamem Sekt-Anstoßen zum Neujahr.

Weg vom singen im Auto, auf dem Weg zur Schule,
Von Schaumbädern, von Radtouren,
Von stehen-gelassenen Tellern; der vollen Spülmaschine,
Vom Küsschen auf das Aua, von Weihnachtsplätzchen,
Von "hast du mir was mitgebracht?"

Weg von "du bist ja immer noch wach!" um zwei,
Von Hektik vor der Reise, von Spaziergängen,
Von Sushi bestellen bei guten Noten,
Oder bei Schlechten, zum Trost,
weg von Pasta auf der Terrasse, bei 30°C.

Weg von Dampfnudeln, auch bei Oma,
Von Frisch geschnittenem Gras, in dem sich der Hund wälzt,
Von "wie heißt der amerikanische Tag mit dem Truthahn?"
Vom Boden aus Tuc Keksen.
Weg vom warten auf das Foto vor dem Abendessen.

Weg von Kostümen und gepflochtenem Haar,
Von Schminke im Gesicht; Wimperntusche, Komodowaran!
Weg von Sträußen aus Gänseblümchen im Sommer,
Rennen durch den Rasenspränger; Zelten im Garten,
Vom in dein Bett kriechen, nach einem Albtraum.

Es heißt weg gehen, aufs Neue.
Weg von Mama, die ich liebe.
Nur eine Umarmung bevor ich gehe,
bis zum nächsten Wiedersehen.

the thread thins as I cling
desperately
scratching, burning it's way into my skin
desperately
I pull a little tighter
desperately
and even the snap backfires on me.

Every note of
every song pulses
through my veins
as if my heart were still
without them.

Each beat interrupts
whatever thought has only just
begun to form in my head,
taking its place
instead.

The lyrics do
not reflect what I want
to think,
but the melody has
already taken over
my brain, sunken
into my blood flow,
grasped my every muscle.

I cannot skip this song,
so I sit,
still,
twitching,
staring,
listening,
until it is over.

I forget to blink
because a blink is not
scripted.

The wall before me appears
to turn yellow, and
only after a minute
of internal glitching
do I notice the pain
in my limbs and my core,
as it spreads
into my soul,
and I shut down
for good.

My favourite part of every day is the early evening
when the sun has not yet faded
but is slowly but surely making her way
across the sky towards the horizon,
in order to hide for a few hours, or travel,
or simply visit a friend – I do not know
what exactly she does when she is not around –
and the moon, as pretty as she is
when she does come around,
has not yet taken our sun’s place.
Sometimes they both appear in the sky during the day,
sisters, or lovers perhaps,
that only meet on occasion.
Never at night though.
Perhaps both like to spend their nights alone;
maybe the moon hoards the blanket for herself and the sun snores.
In the early evening when I am watching the sun
wave goodbye and say goodnight,
I like to stand and water my mother’s flowers and herbs and bushes.
The front garden only, for the back one is not my territory.
Never will be.
I reach gently and unravel the hose,
and I never unravel it enough;
I always notice half way through watering,
once the scent of the freshly watered plants,
the mixture of oils and water, the petrichor,
though it is fake, not genuine, because it is man-made rather than created
through true rain, has already clogged my nose.
It is not unpleasant,
in fact, it is likely my favourite smell of all
and that is why I like to stand and water my mother’s plants
in the early evening,
so that I can smell the petrichor I create,
and close my eyes as I hold the steady stream of water
into the hydrangea pot – it means water loving,
and they need a lot of water to turn into those beautiful clusters
of flowerheads that I adore so very much –
and I pretend they are my own.
I am older and I am stable and I am happy.
I have a garden full of flowers that I have planted myself;
some of the dirt is still stuck underneath the nail of my index finger,
and they are all blooming,
and they are mine,
and there are many of them,
but most are hydrangeas, because they are water loving,
and I am water loving, and I am a water sign,
and I love the blue and pink and white
that strikes my eyes when I watch them.

Can we please adopt a senior cat when we move into our own home,
regardless of when or where that is?
As much as I adore kittens and young cats, I have no experience,
and I know that seniors do not get adopted as quickly and as frequently as younger cats,
and I also don’t know how long we will live in one place,
so I want a cat that has perhaps already had one or two
or five homes in the past,
and that will also not live for fifteen years because that is a very long commitment
for a first cat, and though it is a decent time for a second cat,
I want to practice with a cat that has already been loved before,
and that is already potty trained,
and I want to make sure she is grateful that she has found a new forever home
after waiting for so long.
Perhaps it is selfish to want this gratefulness,
but it seems a fool-proof way to insure that my first cat truly loves me.
And when we adopt her we need to make sure we have visited her once or twice
or five times before,
so that she knows us already, and so that she can learn to trust us,
and so that we can see if it is actually a good fit,
because I have worked at a shelter and it is so sad to see a cat returned
when she isn’t what the temporary owner had hoped her to be,
and I don’t want to be temporary,
not for our cat,
and especially not for you.

Ich sitze und ich sitze und ich sitze und ich
denke immer wieder nach
weil es so vieles gibt über das ich nachdenken könnte und sollte und müsste.
Meine Gedanken schwirren wie Bienen durch meinen Kopf,
doch sie ergeben kaum Sinn -
hat es einen Sinn dann über sie nachzudenken?
Ich könnte sie nicht einmal wirklich in Worte fassen
selbst wenn ich das versuchen würde,
am Ende würden nur Brocken lose Erde auf das Papier fallen und es beschmutzen;
es würde nichts daraus wachsen.
Vielleicht rauschen die Gedanken zu schnell durch mein Hirn um Sinn zu ergeben,
vielleicht kann ich sie nicht lesen so schnell wie sie sind.
Egal wie ich es drehe
und wende, am Ende
des Tages habe ich keine Ahnung woran ich den ganzen Tag gedacht habe,
ich weiß nur DASS ich gedacht habe,
und dass mein Kopf nicht eine Sekunde lang still war,
so wie es der meines Freundes manchmal zu sein scheint.
Woran denkst du grade?
Frage ich ihn, und er zuckt nur mit den Schultern.
Nichts.
Zumindest nichts wichtiges.
Aber meine Gedanken sind alle wichtig,
und genau deshalb stört es mich so sehr,
dass ich ihnen keinen Sinn geben kann,
und sie mir nicht merken kann,
denn wenn sie wichtig sind und ich sie vergesse
dann ist das ein persönliches Versagen,
um das ich mir dann aufs Neue Gedanken machen muss.  

I miss
staying up until 3 am to read a story on ao3 that made my heart clench and my legs swing and my breath catch,
being unable to sleep because of the anticipation that came before a school trip,
hugging my massive toy horse and imagining it was someone I loved, as I fell asleep,
Saturday nights watching television with my parents,
ordering sushi on bad days,
ordering sushi on good days,
listening to the same albums over and over,
the thrill of a concert with friends,
rows and rows of tiny figurines, all of which have names and personalities only I know,
switching tabs to secretly write while doing homework,
lying on the roof of a museum at night, vodka on my tongue,
being adored but never kissed or touched because my love was only platonic, knowing no heartache besides that of unrequited yearning,
hating the smell of coffee so much that mornings with my mum were often unbearable,
five cups of tea in a day,
exploring my neighbourhood with my old dog for hours,
the shape and feel of my familiar lunch box, or walking to the nearby bakery with my closest classmates, and
learning to drive while everyone else did, so we could drive to McDonald’s instead.

I love you. I hate everything you stand for. I worry about your future because it isn’t the one I want for myself so it isn’t the one I want for you. I want to let you make your own decisions but you’re making them all wrong. I want to control every part of your life. I have never met you. I want you to be happy. I want you to follow your dreams. I don’t know what your dreams are anymore because we barely speak. I miss you. I‘m doing better without you. I can’t live without you. I want you in my life but passively. I want you as far away as you can physically be. I crave a hug from you. I miss you. I hate that you used to judge me for things I do and now you do them yourself. I am proud of your development. I think you need therapy. I think I need therapy. I dream about you twice a week. I hope you forget I exist. I hate you, but only on Thursdays. I will always remember your birthday. I want to be more like you. I think you are nothing like me. I miss you. I despise your music taste. I love it when you make me playlists. I think you have too many opinions. I like hearing your voice. I am anxious when you go silent. I never want to speak again. Sometimes I sit and think about who you are and who you were and who I am and whether we can be friends. I know we wouldn’t become friends now. I wonder if we are friends at all. I hate all of your friends. I want you to be loved, but not by anyone other than me. I don’t love you anymore, not the way I used to. I miss you.

I think I would like to have a girlfriend.
Someone very pretty, someone smaller than me, whose hands I can hold gently all day, even while I am driving, whenever my hand is not needed on the gearstick.
It is strange, I think, that when I feel lonely I always yearn for a girl,
even when I know my loneliness stems from missing my boyfriend, because he has been away too long
and I have too.
Perhaps it matters, because it is different. Loving girls feels different to loving men.
The fact alone that I can describe them as girls, describe myself, perhaps, as a girl, though I do not truly care about that kind of thing, despite our age.
A man is a man is a man, but a girl can be a woman
or choose not to be.
Perhaps I do not wish for a girlfriend at all.
Perhaps I want to reach out and hold my own hand, the hand of a girl that requires her hands to be held at all times, because she too is lonely like I am.
I will reach out and grab it, and squeeze it so tightly that our hands both turn blue. And when I let go to change gears, I will remember that it is
just me in my car.

There is a comfort; I think as I sit, wrapped in a blanket I bought the first day I moved into this house, from a shop I held your hand in, freely, for the first time; in being able to fully unwind next another person. To unwind my clothes, my hair, my heart, as your calloused hands massage, gently, the knots in my tired shoulders. There is a comfort in shared silence, the faint droplets of water against the window; finally the rain that was promised to us days ago as arrived, a blessing for the plants outside my window and those inside my ribcage. They wind their way around the paling bones, the crumbling white and grey and yellow, through the stream of my pulsing red blood and into my brain and the deepest holes of my heart. It is not painful, because here too, there is a comfort. A comfort in knowing that as I sleep, your arms wrapped as tightly around my waist as the vines are around my windpipe, there is something growing in me, pushing out of every creak and crevice, and blossoming with every caress. It wraps around you too, tying your ankles and wrists, slinging around your hips, weaving its way through your hair, until we are bound beyond separation, interwoven for all eternity, our eyes forever closed.

Wenn auch ich es nicht beschreiben oder erklären; nicht im geringsten ergründen kann warum:
in mir lebt seit Tagen und Wochen und Monaten eine permanente Unzufriedenheit.
Sie nagt an meinen Knochen und klopft von innen gegen die Wände meines Kopfes;
irregulär sowohl in Stärke als auch Rhythmus, bis ich wieder einmal mit Schmerzen im Bett verschwinde,
mir die Decke über die Augen ziehe und hoffe, warte, bete, dass es am nächsten Morgen vorbei ist.
Schlimmer aber sind die Nächte in denen ich nicht schlafen kann; wieder einmal nicht zur Ruhe komme,
weil der kleine Kobold unzufrieden durch mein Hirn stampft und jeden Tropfen Flüssigkeit, und jede kleine Ader zu bemängeln hat.
Er fragt mich warum ich tue was ich tue, warum ich bin wie ich bin, und wer ich überhaupt sein will.
Er bittet mich ein Dokument zu öffnen um etwas zu schreiben; endlich wieder etwas zu erschaffen,
und hackt dann auf jedem Wort herum, das meine Finger verlässt.
Manchmal sogar davor, wenn die Worte noch in mir sind, noch halb geformt sind – er lässt ihnen nicht einmal die Zeit sich voll zu entwickeln ehe er sie wieder durcheinander wedelt, und dieses ewig schmollende Gesicht dann da sitzt, und mich fragt warum ich es überhaupt versuche.
Ich soll mich mehr anstrengen, sagt er, aber dann kritisiert er mich wenn ich zu viel arbeite und mich überlaste.
Das bin ich selber schuld, sagt er.
Immer dieser Perfektionismus.
Und dann liege ich da und der Raum ist einfach nicht dunkel genug; zeitgleich zu laut und dennoch zu still,
sodass ich meinen Atem hören kann und nun nur noch darauf konzentriert bin, wie ich atme.
Das Atmen insgesamt wird plötzlich manuell, wird schwierig; ich habe permanente Angst es zu vergessen.
Dann wird die Luft eng.
Du miserables Wesen, du, das sitzt und meckert,
ewig lang, statt selber etwas zu verbessern.
Mich schändest für meine Faulheit, wenn ich mich versuche zu erholen,
nach einer langen Woche, während du dort sitzt,
Tag ein Tag aus, auf deinem Thron aus Beschwerden,
und mir dabei zuschaust wie ich in Kreisen renne.
Eine Unzufriedenheit mit allem was ich versuche oder nicht versuche, jeder Aktivität die ich beende, und vor Allem jeder, die ich abbreche.
Eine Unzufriedenheit mit jedem Verhalten, das ich zeige, da keines davon mehr authentisch wirkt,
und Authentizität lange ihre Bedeutung verloren hat, weil jede meiner Handlungen nur noch davon lebt, dich begeistern zu wollen.
Doch der Kobold schweigt und runzelt nur die Stirn,
denn schon wieder habe ich Zeit damit verschwendet; habe 440 Wörter dafür verschwendet,
nur um mir den Frust von der Seele zu schreiben. Und am Ende der Seite
bin ich trotzdem enttäuscht.

I find myself thinking a lot, recently, about all the things I wish I could afford to buy for myself, even though I know I do not really possess a need for most of them,
nor will I ever be able to afford them.
I suppose that this desire to purchase small items has its roots deep in the history of humankind, the wishes of individuals playing a role in many a myth or story throughout the years;
and similarly I believe that the line between this light-hearted desire, this wishful thinking, and the more serious sin of greed is a very thin one every human walks throughout their life.
King Midas was greedy and died to it,
but surely my own wishes of wealth and my dreams to own arbitrary items are not comparable to his mania?
I do not have any use for gold or silver, nor platinum and bronze.
Instead the little number on my bank account, which is not even an item of physical value, could add a few zeros to fulfil my heart’s wish.
In our current situation even dreams of stability; the ability, even, to afford frequent rent and water, have become acts of “greed” worthy of being looked down upon.
But why should I not wish to have my future bills settled ahead of time through a little twist of luck?
Why should I not wish to have money – just enough money – to go about my life
with a little less worry, a little more joy, a little less looking-at-the-price-tag.
Why shouldn’t I, a simple woman of this modern age, be able to treat myself once in a while to an item that is “overpriced” simply because it looks good?

As I sit and muse about all the little reckless wishes I have accumulated over the years,
the list just seems to grow. It starts with little, useful gadgets,
future investments, clever decisions.
A tea machine because I drink so much of it every day, or a fancy multi-purpose kitchen machine to simplify my baking and cooking adventures.
Pots and pans of greater sizes for different dishes and loaves of bread; and of course the cupboard space to store them away from sight, neatly, tidily.
Is it not normal for a woman such as myself to dream of a tidy house,
in which guests could be welcomed in theory at any time, but rarely in actuality,
as to not disturb my own peaceful life, day by day?

The wishes grow a little more whimsical here. An instrument to learn,
and a plant for every corner.
The clash between my desire to have clean and tidy surfaces and my yearning for greenery and clutter becomes more evident.
Why should I not have mismatched mugs and plates and cutlery;
why should I not have plants hanging from the ceiling and from the walls too. In the bathtub even,
because that, too, is something I would wish for.
The ability to own all of these cooking utensils and yet order food from outside in once in a while for consumption,
on days that have been long and tiring,
and from which I want to recover with a hot meal I do not have to labour over,
because I have already laboured so much.
Perhaps a dish that is less healthy, as a treat, as a reward, and perhaps I will consume it inside of the bathtub
because if I were rich enough to do so, and if, by chance, I should make the error of spiling some of this brought-in-from-outside dish into my bathtub,
then surely I can hire someone else to come clean it for me, and pay them graciously so that they, too, can enjoy a little freedom in their spendings.

Why should I not, as a labouring hardworking woman of the current times,
who will continue to put in regular effort and maintain the required social life and work ethic,
despite her apparent wealth,
be able to spend my money on absurd things. On non-physical things.
On leisure items to be used once and then ignored, perhaps donated, or perhaps simply forgotten in a drawer
in a dresser
in a corner.
Why should I not spend the coins I have on mobile games, on music and on films;
and a new handheld device to watch them on;
and a new laptop on which I can tap away in the evenings about my day to day life, in ignorance of whether or not the manuscripts will ever be read by anyone.
They do not exist to be interesting, much like how I do not exist with the purpose of being interesting or worthwhile, I simply exist with the purpose of existing,
and trying my best to find joy in it.

Why should I not, once in a while, take a trip to a new place,
one that I can explore and enjoy, and one which will inevitably cost me all of my energy, until I learn and relearn over and over,
to appreciate the home that I have to return to, because though
going away is easy and coming home is hard,
coming home is also necessary, is important, and can be the best decision a tired mind can make at the end of a wonderful journey.
A home that holds loved ones, holds a cat which I,
with my either hard earned or luckily won money, but my money nonetheless,
can spoil and pamper and ruin entirely, because she deserves it;
because if I cannot be a cat and laze about and sleep and rest a little more, and bite whenever I feel like biting, and scratch and hiss and growl and purr;
then at least my little cat should do so, and later retire to the comfiest of beds, eat the tastiest of fish and drink the purest of water.
For what could she possibly do wrong, and if she does nothing wrong,
then why should she not live a life of luxury?
Surely only faults must be punished and an existence as pure and earnest as that of a feline who hates whomever she must hate,
and loves whomever she doesn’t,
deserves to be pampered and celebrated.

And where you fit in into all of this I cannot tell you,
but rest assured that my wealth and wisdom include you too, for as long and as much or as little as you wish,
and any place that is mine shall also be yours, unless you give me a reason to stop;
and even then I would be graceful and good, and allow you a small share, just enough to feed you and house you after I discard of your presence,
until you too can regain health and wealth and joy some place other.