Flashback

London, January 1, 2010

"Can I have a regular cappuccino with an extra shot, please? To go."

"Chocolate on top, Madam?"

"Yes, please, thanks."

I don't give a shit.

I am in shock and everything I do, everything I say is controlled automatically by the emergency centre of my brain. It's lunchtime in wintery London and the one-way ticket from Munich that I hold in my left hand brands five simple letters into my palm: panic. What on earth have I done? Rewind. Please. Rewind.

This café, those people, those streets. I don't want it. Not like that. What a stupid, what a horrifyingly stupid idea. The chocolatey milk foam makes me sick, blending in perfectly with the nausea that is caused by a grave and heavy lump in my miserable throat. I am hiding my dazzled eyes behind one of those ridiculous London-chic sun glasses that felt far lighter on my crinkly nose when I tip-toed through this city's summery nights as a tourist chasing dreams for a day or two.

Today I shiver and every step on the uneven pavement aches. A suitcase. That's it. Me. And a suitcase. Pathetic but true.

Later in my hotel room I stare at my new mobile phone with a strange new number that doesn't make sense at all. It's not mine. My likewise unknown and new companion Home-Sickness that has been hard on my heels since the plane touched the British ground this morning is omnipresent and paralyses my senses as well as my lungs. I have to close my eyes to hide myself deep inside the comfort of a phantasy for a moment.

I lean back and whisper gently to myself that everything is fine. Everything is fine. I imagine that I will go home tomorrow. I imagine that my keychain is not completely vacant but carries a key to my car, a key to my flat, and a key to the past. I imagine what it would feel like to drive home from the airport, knowing every angle of my car just as well as every single metre of the motorway that would lead me back home while the speakers would roar with familiar sounds. After having navigated blindfold through the one-way-streets of my neighbourhood, I would look for a parking space and I would find one exactly in front of the Italian restaurant. The waiters would carry my luggage as always and the hackneyed "Ciao, Bella" would sound so sweet in my homecoming ears. I imagine every wooden step in the staircase that I would climb up and think of the board on the sixteenth step that bears a wormhole in the shape of a wolf's head. I would open the door to my flat and switch on the light. For a second my phantasy is painfully disturbed by the image of the empty hallway that I left behind. But right now all my furniture and posters that adorned the walls of the corridor would still be there. The light of my answering machine would flash, and while I would prepare a coffee with my old sky-blue brewer I would listen to your message: "It's me. Come round later if you like. And if you could pass by Sabo's and get me a package of cigarettes, that'd be great."

Then I would take off my shoes and walk over to my living room, light the candles and wind up the clockwork of my ebony grandfather clock before moving away the plants on the window sill to open the window and blow the smoke of a welcome-back cigarette into the patio. I would check whether my neighbour would be there, and finally I would grab my phone to tell you that I'm home.

This last thought throws me back into the relentless reality with a choking cough. There is no home. At least it's not mine anymore, and there is no car. And my keychain is boasting zero keys. My phone number is unknown to me and the rest of the world, and the flat ads on the screen of my Macbook look utterly uninviting.

I go outside to have a cigarette at least and call you at home, picturing you on the sofa that hosted the both of us for a new year's drink yesterday. I don't manage to speak a single word. Neither do you. After a gut-wrenching minute of silence I hang up, go back inside and welcome myself on the island with a pillow over my head to muffle the voices of my agony, my voice. If only tomorrow I would wake up next to the excitement and adventurousness that got me here. If only.

"Burning Bridges is an expression synonymous to the "point of no return."

You gotta be your own dog

Today I envy the birds. Not for their ability to fly, though, I can book a flight. I can go wherever I want. But for the fact that they can tuck their heads under one of their wings and blank out everything they don't wish to see and hear. Even the wind won't reach them under their feathers. But I don't have wings, and so I have to listen to the world and what it has got to say and observe the backdrop that is put into the limelight of my attention. And while I watch the scenes go by, I make a sad discovery: I am bullet-proof. In the end, I am. Every projectile that is fired at me bounces back and leaves nothing but a little dent behind that will fix itself quicker than I would like it to.

I have an explanation for that and it is far away from being a sensational finding but I tend to forget. I forget that they, that you are not me. You are you. And your rational and emotional gear wheels interlock differently than mine. Even when we stand on the exact same spot, listen to the same sounds and see the same images, you will turn the heard and seen into something entirely different than I would. And I won't try to impose my perception on you. You live your life. And I live mine. If I like what you find in the universe, I will make a decision and stay around, without reservations or conditions. If I don't like what you come up with, I just turn around and go. In some instances I will tip-toe in silence, in others I will tumble or stomp. I might be sad but when it comes down to it, I won't be sad about what you are not, but about the fact that my head and heart didn't manage to stay away from brush and colour and painted an identity onto your face that was based on my workings not on yours. I can't be sad about what you are not, can I? After all I picked you for a reason. I picked you because you are what you are. If ultimately you do what you do, I will just wish you luck and hope that you will be fine even if your decision is antagonistic to my ways.

I promised myself something a while ago. I promised myself that I wouldn't want to keep everything forever. Some objects and figures are only good enough for a cameo appearance if you refuse to put them into different clothes. And I do refuse. A chicken won't become a sailor only because you place a captain's hat on it's head. And so I let you breath a last breath on my stage and turn around to carry home a tiny bag of sadness that my reason will identify as irrational disappointment as soon as I unpack it. Because this is the way I work. The question, what is worse, sadness or disappointment, I pass on to you before I stow away brush and colour. For good.

Goodbye

I was so unsuspecting

with my suitcase and my thirst.

Curiosity fell fondly over my shoulders,

and winter was under my feet.

The icy air froze my lashes.

I always loved Munich most under a blanket of snow.

You said "go", and I smiled and believed in adventure.

Fearless and thrilled I set foot on the island

and homeless my heart broke without warning.

My feet slipped on the ice-free ground

and I fell on my knees

while my lungs burst with nostalgia.

I might go back there when I'm old.

And I will be soothed by the cold.

I always loved Munich most under a blanket of snow.

I might never go back,

and dream of being home under a blanket of snow

while being displaced in one city or another.

I came with a selection of songs

that now carry the imprint of the past.

I came with a book full of names

that now belong to history.

So I look out for new chords and melodies.

I search for new names to scribble into the book.

You say "come back", and my smile is cracked.

I'm trying to figure out the silence and the empty pages,

and what it is that they are doing to me.

I am writing epic letters to myself and to you.

There is still the same mind under the travel hat.

I had to move, and I don't do backwards walking.

Winter will abandon us,

it always does.

And under the blanket of snow

lie a million things and sentiments

that grow like weeds when they catch the first sunshine of spring.

I always loved Munich most under a blanket of snow.

I look up into the British sky

and I smell snow.

My heart plays tricks on my senses.

I might go back there and pay a visit

but with the British seasons in my pocket

the snow of my home will never feel the same again.

I was so smart then, in my adventurer's gown.

I felt so fortunate that I didn't look back when I waved and left.

In January I said farewell, today I mean good-bye and see you soon.

I always loved Munich most under a blanket of snow.

But deep down I prefer the sun.

Sphere & Space

Sphere and space don't always behave the way that physics ascribe to them. And neither do we, floundering and marching within them.

Sometimes, I think of the world as a wide open space with no limits and frontiers.

Sometimes I don't think at all. This is when time and space absorb me entirely, when my low-angle perspective shrinks the universe around me to the size of a pebble, and I lose touch with reality and myself.

Sometimes I think of it as room where you can't open the window. Every day you wake up and the room is smaller. You don't notice at first. It happens sluggishly, in inches.

And then, one morning you open your eyes and the room is so small you can't move. You can't take a breath. Any gesture could be fatal.

The truth is, we could see it coming. We just didn't have a thorough look. Repression, stress, weariness and tedium cling to us like a leech. And we bleed élan, foresight and discernment. We blank out the colours and everything behind us, everything beside us. Wearing blinkers we focus on the snow-white light behind the window that could be anything, the end of a phase, a dream, an illusion, the truth or the future. But the window can't be opened, and so we turn around and realise that there is a whole world out there, not just one tiny fraction of a horizon limited by the edges of a window-frame.

We all know that it is the change of perspective that broadens the horizon. People, their views, their stories, a journey, a look from above, a kick in the backside, a kind word, someone's worries or a scolding. And time and time again, when the gray and tiny pebble sits heavily on my comprehension of self and reality, I promise myself that I won't forget that the world is a big place after all, and that I can stay where I am or stray if I feel like it. And that I will always recall that I have two legs to move if I want to, a head to turn if I have to, a brain to spin if I must and a heart to freeze or ignite if I need to.

The world is a big place after all, isn't it?

An Airborne Dream

In stoic composure the windscreen wipers sweep of the thick snowflakes that hypnotisingly hit the front window without respite. "Tick-tock, tick-tock", they seem to squeal, and with every white load that they push over the edge, I can feel seconds being taken away from me.

The flakes look sharp and icy, and the sound of the snow chains milling and groaning their way through the uphill serpentines is comforting while the fir tree tops slowly and delightfully devour the sun. The headlights gallantly take over the task of illumination and turn the white flurry into a flickering delusion.

I am muffled up on a window seat on a bus. It is a small vehicle and it grumbles in the manner of a diesel. The faces of my few fellow passengers are blurred and they seem to be sleeping peacefully. Beautifully and almost unnaturally arranged in their seats, like flowers in one of Monet's bouquets, they remain motionless and pastel against the glooming scenery behind the windows.

Eventually one of the faceless creatures on the other side of the aisle puts on familiar attributes and the mouth that starts speaking to me is yours. I know I know you inside out, and your sharp and familiar gaze hits me just as hard as the frozen crystals impinge on the glass. Your lips are moving, and I can tell that you clear your throat in between your mute syllables but the sound never makes it past your tongue. I watch remorse and discomfort flash through your face until finally your mouth lingers in a sad still and your iris begs my pardon.

I sit silently and lamed, and in horrified anticipation I observe the feeling that climbs up my spine while the sky is disgorging the frozen night. The lost seconds are given back to me and intensify the pain in slow motion. I didn't understand a word you said but I know that you have just broken my heart. This agony cannot be mistaken. It's brutality is unparalleled.

I close my eyes and I can hear and feel myself shattering in reflected hush, but before the emerging nausea can reach my throat, I open my eyes and find myself on a plane. My dizzy eyes catch sight of the propellers slowing to a stop while the other passengers are already getting ready to disembark.

In a daze and carrying the ache of a broken heart, I stumble over the airfield and wonder how you made it into my dream and why my brain asked you to stab a knife into my sleeping me. I don't really know you. You don't really know me.

On the backseat of the cab that is taking me back into town, I slowly come back to my senses and I wonder if some day we will sit next to each other in a bar filled with chatting voices and easy sound. We would sink into on old sofa that would be green and cushioned and nobody would notice us. And we would talk and drink red wine and share all the stories that we would have kept safely in our chests, and we would be calm and curious, and it would be of no importance if we would know each other the day after because all we would know would be the here and now.

"A dream is a succession of images, sounds or emotions that the mind experiences during sleep. The content and purpose of dreams are not fully understood."