Tumbling out of bed as if fleeing, I calmed as soon as my feet are set on the road outside of Nordmetall - at 5 AM in the morning the gravel was appeasing - rustle, rustle as I moved along. At this time of the day barely anyone had woken up. The lights seemed dimmer, and cars were marveled at like an arrow piercing through the dark. And I took them, and I took it literally - the driver was never seen - on the car and in the window the only things visible were pairs of headlights, and even they would disappear swiftly.
Thoughts were as useless as language. Intuition ruled. I commanded myself to walk, to gaze, to bust out cobwebs, and to snap pictures of faintly lit trees and buildings that were unpopulated, but I didn't talk, think or even enjoy. It was all there to be felt, to be merged, and to be stopped. I moved; beneath my penis the legs oscillated, grasstips swang and mud churned. And that was it. The stroll was brief and containing - I saw myself as infinitesimal and almost irrelevant. The oversized green t-shirt and the body it covered were mere anomalies, heated up and vital, contrast to everything that surrounded. And I couldn't help but wonder, how much more distance would they travel? How much more time would they shine? At least it all appeared static, and thus it all appeared eternal.
Soon it was the end; behind the church I waited for salvation - Owen, a chunky figure, oh there he was to greet me, "good morning, let's jog", and at once we started to jog. 4 laps were not an easy task and I had to adjust the breath; a lump-sum of energy was pumped into my body or squeezed out of it. And as I jogged more attentively the world faded; the dark and the quiet retracted; a tinge of my sense of familiarity steadily revealed. Owen had been jogging for years in streak - his unaffected, concluded posture intrigued me, and my ego strained to keep up. It was still night, and there was no distinction between the sky and anything beyond campus. But suddenly I smelled evening - as if the two of us were jogging around the Campus Green several hours after dinner and into the night, when life had just started to be fun. Beginning to sweat mildly, I took off my overcoat, the one I bought from Marktkauf last winter, and threw it to the side. It was the same place where she and I first talked. But it neither aroused nor discouraged me. I had excised the part of my own from reality, and turned it into something remote and absurd and comically admirable.
Never mind the past, I had taken photos and written poems, those shall suffice. My pursuit had become grander than just these human tomfooleries, even the grass and breeze and star and tree - magnificent and exquisite they were but stale and diminutive. Having nothing to report to the police and living in a peaceful country, I was content. When I walked out, I was escaping dream; when I walked back I had yet again convinced myself that it was not true. I was happy, even light-headed. What a wonderful morning! Just as people braced for another day of routine I had already finished it, falling back to sleep!
And by the end of the day, as I lay down to fiddle aimlessly for a few moments to prepare myself for another round of sleep, all that had remained was an impenetrable line in the Notes app of my iPhone:
"Dream: remnant of noodles and cute letters to someone else."
