2020: #createanyway. (I)

Who am I?
Friend,
Artist,
Brother,
Social Worker,
Mentor,
Booker,
Son,
Creative,
Supporter,
Team member,
Supported,
Enthusiastic,
Fearful,
Wonderfully made,
Doubting,
Fighting,
Different but Same,
Human,
Dreamer,
Challenged,
Restless,
Courageous,
Weak,
Dependent,
Independent,
Insecure,
Am I this?
What do you see?
What do I hide?
Words can not fully discribe.
I can't fully grasp.
Me.
But still I am.
Reflections of myself.
And that's okay.

Long forgotten treasure.
Pure.
Lighthearted.
Sensitive.
Mostly overlooked.
Misunderstood in it's hidden beauty.
Fragile in shape.
Quick fading scent.
Still
Safe companion.
Secure saviour.
Resilient in crisis.
and almost gone.

Words.
Beautifully rare,
barely heard.
A silent whisper,
waving in the air.
Wooing to be treasured.
Waiting. Patiently.
For a tongue to move,
a voice to speak,
the mystery to unfold.
Waiting for me to say...

 
KULTIVATOR
HIPPIEESK
ZÄSUR
MUTAUSBRUCH
ERINNERUNGSGUERILLA
DREIZEITDIMENSIONAL

THINGAMAJIG
FLIPPANT
INSTA-ANGRY

It is 1 am.
Quiet.
My room mates are sleeping.
I am barely daring to move.
Afraid for the floor under my feet to creak.
Disturbingly loud breaking the silence.
Thus I am standing. Motionless.
A frozen silhouette.
It is a starless black night.
But there is a light shimmering outside.
A dimmed shine in a neighbours window.
My eyes are yearning,
to discover more illuminated windows out there.
Let there be light.
in this absorbing starless madness.
Let there be.
More light.
The sun will rise,
but until then, there is a night.
It is 1 am.

another flat, another cup, another flavour,
but the same good old scent.
other circumstances, another rythm, other behaviour,
but still this familiar feeling in the tips of my fingers,
when I hug it.
a year different then expected is challenging routines,
and yet there is this wonderful taste,
when it enters the floodgates of my throat.
a sense of comfort in a wild world,
where an invisible enemy confronts fragile securities.

I am waving two fingers in the air: PEACE YA!
An gestured air hug and I continue my walk.
Closer I am not allowed to come,
No physical touch, no chance to tell you beyond words:
I am with you in this.
PEACE. Salam. Vrede. Shanti. Paz.

What is it like?
Peace, for a refugee without residence permit,
when sufficient protection against infection is difficult to provide.
Peace, for a girl that has to deal with her father’s aggressions,
and he is not even leaving for work.
Peace, for a doctor offering medical treatment,
though facing limited ressources.

Peace, for those dependent on food banks,
but they stay closed.
Peace, for those facing isolation alone,
without somebody to call.
PEACE. What a strange thing.

As I continue walking, I notice sunshine on my face.
This gleam of light is still in the air.
It is rising
on the unprotected and threatened,
on the overwhelmed, hungry and lonely.
The sun is rising.
I am waving two fingers in the air.
It gets blurry when I try to read between the lines.
PEACE what a strange word,
but yet PEACE be with you.

In the twilight

It was the first time I traveled to the moon,
when I met him.
Our first encounter was like a gentle breeze
and a heavy storm at the same time,
an immediate connection between us,
intimate, intense and yet somehow peaceful.
Something like a whisper roared from a close distance.
I sensed all kinds of unfamiliar bright and dark colors
springing from the white moon field around us,
like fountains of ink in a desert.
At the same time there was silence breaking into the scenery.
A shadow overcame us and I could not barely see anything.
Just his silhouette was left.
I cringed. It struck me like a lightning.
He was a trickster.
I knew he understood me and I knew he was special.
Of which kind was hard to describe. I just knew it.
I saw in his eyes
(or at least I think I saw it)
that he noticed me
beyond my surface,
in my hidden innermost.
He felt me, he heard my heartbeat, he read my mood
and he chose me.
I sensed a gentle whisper asking me one question.
If it was his voice or just a resonance in my mind I didn’t know.
But I knew, it was him – even though his silhouette did not move an inch.
And then, without a word, he disappeared.

He chose me.
His voice entwined with mine.
Slowly and carefully my hand touched my breast.
The pulse was normal.
My chest moved steady.
How absurd, I thought
but indeed the man in the moon chose me.
and I could still hear his question echoing deep within me:

So, what are we doing today? Stealing or playing?

“So actually, how does music smell like?”, she asked.
“I don’t know, why would that be important? Silly question, why so silly questions?” he chirped.
“I like to dance to the smell of ripe apples after a smooth summer rain just as to the fragrance of a heavy cloud of cinnamon.” It was difficult for Alice to follow him, dispy-doodeling through the undergrowth.
“Wait! Little squirrel! Wait!” she gasped.
“No time, no no, no time! I’m late!”
“Late for what?” she wanted to know –
“Oh don’t you know, little fool?” he replied.

“It is not much time, before it comes back!” –
“What is it? Hey, wait squirrel, wait!” –
“We need to go! C’mon! Quick! Before he plugs them in!” –
“He? Plugging them in? It coming back? What are you talking about?”
The squirrel stopped, turned around, his paws on his hips.
“You haven’t been long here, darling. Aren’t you?” –
Alice stumbled. “Eehm - No. Not really.”
“See, when the master comes back and plugs his nose phones back in, it gets dark above here. You don’t want to experience this. Believe me. His snot rag is ugly! We have to hurry. It is not far. Once we are in the speaker, we are safe. The entrance is not far! C’mon! Fast!”
Like a whirlwind he kept on rushing. Stumbling over dried sediments of snot sticking to the ground she tried to follow as good as possible. Her feet felt heavy. After a few nano inches they reached the gate. It was a hole in the ground and just before the shadow of the masters nose covered their whole little world, they slipped into the speaker.

It was quite. But yet a gentle breeze of so many different scents filled her nostrils, that she tumbled. It was a composition of fragrances like a divine perfume. It hijacked her. She wanted to bath in it. Never leave this place again. Woozy from this fog of smelling sounds she squeaked.

Wings broken.
Feathers wet.
My little body is shaking.
It is freezing.
Nobody told me, that trying to fly is so risky.
Nobody told me, that I will fall.
That I will be hurt.
And that I will fall again.
Again.
Again.
and Again.
Lying injured on the ground,
I doubt the wind.
You never know where he will carry you
and if he lifts enough.
You never know when he will turn,
or if he fades entirely.
He is wild.
Unpredictable.
It is risky to trust him.
I am waiting instead.
Speaking the language of a bird not trusting the wind
to carry his wings.
Waiting for time to heal,
to make me strong.
Waiting for the meadow to grow high,
to veil my sight.
Suddenly I see this little ball of feathers,
that I once was.
Sitting on the edge of my cozy home,
afraid of his first flight.
But it took the risk.
It fell, but yet it is still alive.
Can I possibly try it just once more?

Sitting on a branch,
my wings are trembling.
It is damn risky.
I would not be here,
if there would not be this constant gentle whisper:
Blackbirds singing in the dead of night,
Take your broken wings and learn to fly.

It has been a wild ride.
Ten days, each day a piece of art,
each day another theme,
another endeavor.
Peaceful pieceful I am resting.
We are gazing stars.
It is a mild spring eve
and I am convinced to smell already
a promise of summer.

Close-by the same door,
this cozy chair, shrouded in story,
a familiar view on our sleepy city,
and night hours for creating.
It is a reflection of its beginning.
I juggled with words, precious and bold.
I saw narratives emerge through the surface,
like buoys guiding my attention towards the horizon,
waiting for me to see the northern lights behind.
Contrasting the frigid demands of a world
that keeps spinning on orbits nobody knew,
I spoke.
A trickster among kindred spirits.

And maybe to pursue is to come back
to where the journey began,
yet with an ambiguous perspective of
heartful doubting confidence.
And then it is on me
to enter this gate,
unto a wide and open field of stories,
desperately waiting to be told.