I belong to a rare subset of people who are at once young and prone to a collection of metaphysical contemplations that befit more affably people of older ages. Since when people are older, as they invariably are, they would have suffered more, and thus become more lucid of the various absurdities that humans naturally harbor. But I am also one of those who, when considered broadly as a whole, isn't special at all, but rather is only aloof. My capacity seldom extends beyond what I write, and even what I write offers no value in a material sense. The act of writing to me, is merely a pastime I savor for the feeling of having written something. Whether I'm well-read or well-versed is of no concern to me. Like the decidedly sub-par teddy bear at the machine, I write not for the aesthetic pleasure of my prose, nor for the philosophical poignancy of my words, but for a simple, transient hedonistic sensuality that would drive others to post pictures on Instagram or to write Facebook posts for the likes of strangers. I am no different from other people in all aspects however difficult it is for me to perceive it that way, shallow and thoughtless, ignorant and sad, like the old poet in bed, patting himself to sleep not with mellow lyrics but with a soft voice.
Many things I have heartily championed have turned out to be futile and useless. And other things, while corporeal and commonplace, have taken up a central role in my life. The bard at Alexanderplatz sang yesterday "pitiful are those who sleep in suit". And I just so happened to walk past him in suit, letting out only an inner burst of awkward laugh and a half-joking admission of truth. However, even truer is the fact that the bard was wearing his non-suit, broadcasting the twaddle of his guitar to a non-audience, only to return later to his earthy abode for the mere continuity of life. Till this day, I have not yet met with another person who at least, is not only alive at the moment, but is also partially alive in all moments, keeping a conscious note of the innocence of youth, the banality of adulthood, the oblivion of elderliness, and the dark nothingness of an ultimate decease. Perhaps I have met them indeed, but perhaps their experiences and upbringings accustomed them to seeing things more positively, and thus differently from how I would see them.
The warm quietude of a Berlin afternoon acquaints me well. The ravens are crowing down the street, around a small patch of food beside a small patch of bush I would never be able to see. Their sounds confer what the yellow sun, green field, and blue ocean have been conferring for millenniums ever since the planet became what it is. And here we humans intoxicate ourselves with wines and breakfast and laptop and a beautiful song. The kid who asked me astrophysical questions is there; the cashier who laughed with me at the Chinese cabbage and kohlrabi is there; even the chatter of bartenders and patrons at the anonymous club is clearer when seen nostalgically; while I sit where I've always sat, forever listening to their buzz.
A distant siren roams by, and breaks off the silent monotony of my observation. And I realize, on this dirty office chair with the usual vividness of my indifference, that the walls surrounding me right now, the windows through which I sometimes see and hear, and this apartment in Christinenstrasse, are my exile. I clasp behind the windowsill like a prisoner behind bars, a widow inside the carriage, and an orphan behind the doors, only farther from their freedom, their husband, and their mom.
And such and such, I capitulate to reality with a false feverishness echoed by the room.
