Lately I haven't gotten to write a whole lot. And whatever I do write feels increasingly like it is written with the trembling hands of a Parkinson's patient. The closer I examine it, in words' and paragraphs' distinct lines and blocks, the more it stands out to me as some combination of background noises that seem to vaguely depict something, only to distract from a deeper, indescribable vacuity. I juxtapose arrays upon arrays of metaphors, objects, fragments of thoughts and try clumsily to weave them together into a picture that lacks context but nevertheless seeks to disturb emotionally - like a doodle of a kindergartener with very strange color choices that I don't understand, mirroring some subset of perceptions of reality, which, equally, I don't understand. And in a way, this is precisely the point. The formation of the letters and the arrangement of them, aim to amplify a residual pain which almost goes away as the normal range of human needs, e.g. hunger, greed, and the need to pee, emerge and subside. I invent them, in the same way a space exploration game invents procedurally generated side quests. These are the tissue sperms, the muscles pushing against the wall, and the jitters of electrical signals emanating from a warm corpse.
And I come back to them, to the graveyard of scrapped thoughts, to their malady and disrepair. Not to commemorate the futility as they are, but to ritually show up, as the regular alcoholic of the Biergarten, drinking to the bitterness of the many days and nights with the clash and clangs of syllables to toast. Perhaps, it is not so much that these non-thoughts are drawing me in, but rather what they represent, a fading era, in which, I, unemployed and therefore unburdened, would sit down every once in a while to record life as I saw it then, and the fact that those things that I have once seen and sought to remember by writing them down, are now only remembered with a strange clarity that dissects everything vividly, yet at the same time, to which I do not so much relate. Therefore, similar to a middle aged man, clad in suit, returning to the dance floor of his favorite night club, I return to this blog, with the addressable concerns I had back then mostly addressed, to write something as a token of me still being around, if only less vivaciously. It might have something to do with the nature of the adult life, of the emergent callousness and indifference after having been marinated with the many expected and unexpected lectures on the perils of naivety. The space for strategic maneuvers and make-belief passions feels slimmer - a twenty-seven year-old single male, a back office corporate finance worker, and a resident of suburban Munich, all of these labels take up precious space of my life's character count, leaving me little room to freestyle the twists and turns without them appearing too abrupt. And hence, I simply extend the storyline by inserting one modifier here, and another metaphor there. I am a playwright of the Season IIs.
In the evenings when I am alone, I sometimes feel homesick, but not for any of the cities where I come from or have been, because none of them interests me any more. The parties I had in them have been over, the door of the departing Uber has been shut, and the last message has been left at read. I have turned around, and to turn back would mean that the only thing I would find is their absence. And in theory I shouldn't feel homesick because everything I am homesick for resides in my brain, which has become a Möbius strip of home and the sickness for it.
So not knowing whether it's the home or the sickness for it, I stare at the dimly lit wall as blankly as I have done a gazillion times before and after, as if still puzzled, as if still trying.
