closing time

closing door, originally uploaded by b&w only.

Swallowing months in. The bulimic anxiety of tender life. The things you love. The things that come towards you. Across you. Watching.
The outer calm. The quiet.
Emptiness could always be the scrambling for words, the humming of sounds not conceivable yet.
Or it could be the awe in front of the steps of life you don’t know how to take in the hamster’s wheel of your own incessant thoughts.

End of March. Approaching.

Sometimes, even the small cone of light will be too sharp for your eyes, if it hits them while there are watching. The closing of the moment.
Watching life end is no sight to be taken.
I will be leaving Berlin. I will watch the cone of life-fullness fade away while burning. And the cone will be the wedge of thoughts. Driving through me, once again.

My words come slowly, unrefined.
Despicably unkempt.

The pile of things I am missing grows taller and taller.
And you wonder whether light will ever fade or just travel away but stay the same.
And you wonder whether your love will never fade, just travel with you and stay the same.

Limitlessness. Defined.

143

last day of summer

swarm of clouds – veil, originally uploaded by rothers.

Today seems to be the last hot day, here. Sun burning down, eye squinting, looking up like trying to perceive something but actually only drinking in all of the warmth present.

The past weeks, I stepped over thresholds, over life. Life. This thing that always evades me. That always defines me.

Everything so unspectacular, everything, therefore, right.

I am, after all, unspectacular.

Just the silent wave of compressed humidity in the palm of a lover’s hand.

Thank you who see something in me.
It is only you.

slowness in my head

wherever it lands, originally uploaded by stralauerallee.

Arrows to the ground.
Words to the ground.
Slowthinking in my head.
Thoughts to the ground. Sticking. No movement. Needing sleep. Needing silence.

London was a surreal experience. Because London did not see me.
Onespotbeing is negligible. It turns anything, everything into the smallest, most unimportant, empty space.
… into the vastest, most important infinity.
The Monade.
I remember it from my childhood days. Not running from yourself, she told me. Not running from places. Not looking for the experience elsewhere. It’s here, always here. Always inside the tip of your finger, the palm of your hand, the heart of your lover.
There is only one. The best there can be.
No comparison.
Just love.

And so, my thoughts go down, my words go down, my beat goes down. And stays.
Because. Because. Because.
Like Socrates said, as long as there is an ear, this ear will make sure that no word will be dropped.
I know, as long there is a Love, no thought will be dropped, no beat will be skipped.
Love of thought. Love of gap-closing-separation.
Separation of the point and the other.
Love is like an atom. atomon: unseparable. But more than one.

Slowness in me.
No words.
No thoughts.
But you.

right at the eyes

right at the eyes, originally uploaded by rothers.

Rain is drawing lines in front of me.
The sky nothing but one white sheet of linen just out of the washing machine of yesterlife.
It blinds me. It makes me numb. In the eyes. Sensible inside.
Not because it is white, just because I am inside of myself. Doesn’t matter what is outside – but it fits that outside, there is the numbness of white. The numbness of indistinctness.

How often do you look something straight in the eye? How often do you not close your lids in front of the sting of incommensurableness? Because your words will leave you. Your known feelings will fail you. Your whatever you called life before will not move anymore.
The incommensurable is immediate, unexpected – no, none of these: it is out of words and thoughts and possibility. Especially possibility. It is *against* possibility, it is just itself. Without an ‘Before’.
It doesn’t even come by. It is. Just: is. In the very moment of being, it is the self-evident entity of what it represents. By filling everything. By starting anew, without the existence of the ‘previous’.
That is why the incommensurable is always the miracle. And only the incommensurable.
Μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεὰ, Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος
οὐλομένην

You can try to hide it, but what changes you is always already there.

Today would have been a wedding anniversary. Of other people. If they’d live.
The other half is just a half, and therefore measurable. Only the One, the Whole, is unmeasurable.
That’s why philosophy in its beginning chose to be silent. Because what really is, can’t be thought or said.
You can only be her lover.
ἓν καὶ πᾶν

keeping life safe

after all these years, originally uploaded by stralauerallee.

Sometime in life, you come to a point where days are no longer the counting unit.
Life is counted by the white pebble of each moment you are allowed to watch life inside of love. And then you look at Love. Twinkling its eye. at you.

As a child, you expose your essence to everything out there, rarely closing your eyes. You absorb, and loose innocence. Whatever that is apart from a word made up by those not innocent at all.
But, somehow, there is always something inside of you you can’t quite name, itching you, turning you, making you tender, making you smile, making you be silent, making you be kind.
And somehow, you know, that this thing, this nameless essence, is too tender, too pure to be thrown into this ever try-ever fail of your own every day stumble.
And so, you put a veil on it. You do not hide it. Just giving it a veil, so it can look out, but not be exposed.
You keep it safe. Even though you may not know why. Because you don’t believe in the Why of Life. You can’t. This is between you and Life.

And so, time moves on. And like a child’s hand in a mother’s hand, this thing inside of you follows you but is always protected.
And you will fight for it like a lioness for her young. And you will not fail. Not in this one.

Yesterday, I watched The Tree of Life. While Life itself was next to me.
Holding my hand. For what it is. For what I am.
The movie sunk into me, I barely managing to stay awake, its imagery tugged me away into the its lap, and there I felt it, the essence of being here: not being here, but being inside and forgetting that there is a Why.
Because that’s where it’s hidden: the Why of all Why.
And the humility to accept it.
hi sunt dei the Romans used to say. These here are the Gods.
Wherever you finally are able to settle and sit down, that’s where the unreachable lies, the never to be touched, the Olympus of being. With living shed off of yourself like a snake’s hide.
Be.
Still.

picturing dreams and dreaming pictures

hollowing beams, originally uploaded by rothers.

The last few days, I am not a man of words anymore. Of written words. Life is in pictures. Not in words. At least not the ultimate things. The defining things.
I am wandering through the city, looking around, and I ask myself whether what I see makes the pictures inside my head.

And it may actually be like this. For some things. But then, I dream, and I feel alive, and I close my eyes and whatever lies in front of me unfolds: the most perfect string of lines, Ariadne’s thread of pictures tugging me in into the life of the one thing untouched by life. The essence of the ‘you’.

And there I sit and smile at the unknown.
Because it is known. By the knowledge of dreams.

Lately, my words are weak. But my dreams are not.
So my dreams will turn them around.
To whisper the word they all have to be to become alive…
ἐρᾶσθαι

the contentedness of the heart

never lonely flowers, originally uploaded by stralauerallee.

Yesterday, I was pedaling through Berlin, just a few minutes, pedaling through areas I came to love, I came to feel inside of me.
And I was smiling. At all the things that might come. Will come. Whatever they are.
Whatever life holds in store. Whatever the fates throw in front of you.
The first time you think you are in love it will drive you to do crazy things, but it’s all things for the craziness inside of yourself.
The first time you are in love it will drive you to do crazy things, and all for the craziness for the thing you love.
And there you are, like daydreaming, under the sun, smiling, and knowing, whatever will come, whatever will happen, wherever this love, this entity which gives you what you call love inside of yourself, is going to do: you will love it no matter what. No matter where.
The pure of heart.

The petals between the grass. They are perfect. They tilt their heads, they lower their eye, they look around, because what makes them smile is everywhere. Around them. Inside of them. Even if they can’t move. They do move.

The contented heart.

Pentecoste again.
And one gift leading them all.

end of the line dream

end of the line dream, originally uploaded by rothers.

All the broken wings. Your home of 20 years.
You have to let it go.
You will miss it. But you know you have to let it go. Because its form, now, will break you.

There are the dreams that you had as a child, that you hold like a bird in your hand, a bird which afterwards will be an outcast because of the smell of human on it.
All your dreams, outcasts of your life because you tinted them with yourself.

Today, I could cry for all the things I have to leave behind.

My birds don’t fly. My birds don’t conquer new worlds.

But, sometimes, some time, my birds will float. Because, the pure, my pure, will lift me into a dream of herself. Like 20 years never happened.
I admire you.
Because you are, unlike all other things, timeless.
The pure. The dainty. The miracle.
καθαρίνη ψυχή

30° of youth

30° of youth, originally uploaded by rothers.

What would it be like to see you again?
All of a sudden.
See this face. This smile.
See the reflection of my being.
Small. But in a spot I would feel safe in.

The last two days, it was burning hot. For this kind of region. My kind of sky.
Walking in the sun I did. Looking up, the breeze under the shirt, the sand in the eye, the relentless youth of life on the drop of salt rolling down my face.
And there I felt it. You seeing again. Your life. The most natural thing. The most sought after thing. If ever.
I who rejects seeking after anything. Especially life.

I imagine this smile. These lines. The lines of life lived in memory.

I will get up on my knees.
Summer is near. Summer. The gift. The one ray going astray and into my palm of hand.

It could be last day of May. But it is a day I felt you.
And you made me alive.
Again.

What are you you can make me mellow and kind?
Magician of life.

in between and unreachable

in between and unreachable, originally uploaded by stralauerallee.

the contrast of running on the borders of anything.
Again.
I will leave here.
And miss it.
Caesar allegedly said better here the first than second in Rome. Maybe for him.
To me it is better anywhere nothing than here the second.
The meeting of two points is a strange thing. Maybe a marvelous one.
It happens at a spaceless dot. At nowhere. Anywhere.
Wishes are guide signs through the marathon of life. Their directions are clear, their endpoint is never.
Because there is none. In any good run.
In any good thought.
Better here none than anywhere second.

My always lover Melancholy.