Where are you waiting for me?
In some breaths, at the end of things reminders show up -
as if we would meet in the afternoon and I´d be late again.
So. Waking up to the dirtiest night train, on the shoulders of my best friend, after a long day of heat. The colours still reflecting the sunny moments between two of my three european homes.
In this ugly inbetween-world for once I don’t have to sit alone, it’s two schoolmates sharing the same memories, sharing the
same longing for repetition. How unwanted the best feelings can
be and how this undesiredness is everything that becomes desired after all. My windows turn black, the glooming sun squints a last goodbye to my worries,
I’m all back to reality, to my own velour shades again, fierce and funny like a
sixteen year old.
I have a stone mask for fights always lying next to me, it has formed over the years, maybe it’s made of terracotta though, and maybe I can resoften it with water. Water from those shared memories, curing wounds and wrinkles, lovely hands of an inner self, stroking out the hard lines. Or should I just break it - I think of who I am and was and which version that will help me mend myself so i can look up again, just as confidently and proudly as I belonged to this friendship, on a train, on a night at the end of summer.
Sometimes in august I wash my soul. Alike to a ritual I swim my daily kilometres in a long glittering rectangle on a narrow elliptic island. It lies as ever, stretched between the open limbs of the river Danube, like the negative space between a woman’s thighs.
The place is purely functional, sporty and thoroughly clean, a sterile hole in the midst of a dusty town. The city of green, red and white, where coloured tiles touch calm clouds and brown broken facades line up for history to look at. There, where everything is chloride, the gleaming wind strokes olive bodies, the water like the sky’s flesh, immensely transparent, becomes topography folded between muscles, washed skin cutting through its surface. How concrete this gilded spot is, the sporty place, how content in its existence, a moment carved in the loam of the dusty city.
There’s two ways of looking at it: on the hard woolen canape, the belly all flat, so the chest can comfortably rise, resting my chin forward like a seal on an open cliff. Or on your back, arms strechted to your sides, feeling the blood in your fists dangling down slightly, like jesus, victimized to boredom, the legs spread apart and resting the heels, naturally equilibrated by gravity.
Here I lie for hours watching a day go by, inventing it to be every day this room has ever seen, changing perspectives so prudently, you feel like time itself, like the wind smelling of freshly fried pork or the spiders climbing up the web in the window.
You become the space you belonged to, separated from it only by the fact of your breath.
Aleksej showers. He sings because of the shame he feels, draining out every
faulty knot in his story, shutting up the hatred, family.
Examination of conscience
remains without result when compared to the sufficiently content.