Was, wenn wir nur für uns handeln würden?
Wenn wir nicht gefallen und beeindrucken wollten, prahlen würden, besser wüssten, drüber stünden und Anerkennung suchten? Wenn es ok für uns wäre, dass andere uns so sehen, wie wir sind?
Wie würden wir uns bewegen? Was anziehen? Was essen? Was würden wir lernen? Singen? Denken? Tun? Wie würden wir zuhören? Was antworten? Wann schweigen?
Vielleicht würden wir, wenn wir ganz bei uns wären, uns kaum wiedererkennen.
Category: texts
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#681
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#667
Who hurt you, once,
so far beyond repair
that you would meet each overture
with curling lip?
While we, who knew you well,
your friends, (the focus of your scorn)
could see your courage in the face of fear,
your wit, and thoughtfulness,
and will remember you
with something close to love.
Louise Penny, in "Bury Your Dead"
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#643
Dies ist ein Gedicht für meine Mutter
die mehr als fünfundachtzig Jahre lebte
die im Krieg geboren wurde und im Frieden starb
Die ihren eigenen Frieden finden musste
sich befreien musste von Konventionen und Erwartungen
die sich befreite von Konventionen und Erwartungen
Dies ist ein Gedicht für meine Mutter
die sich ihre eigene Religion baute
wie es ihr passte
Die überhaupt viel machte, wie es ihr passte
die lernen musste wie das geht
die ihren Mann sterben sah und danach zu leben begann
Die danach zwanzig Jahre ein Leben nach ihrer Façon lebte
ein Leben voller Sehnsucht
viel erfüllter Sehnsucht
mit der ich mich dennoch oft nicht verstand
mich nicht verständigen konnte
weil ihre Art zu leben nicht meine war
ihre Vorstellungen oft nicht meine Vorstellungen waren
Dies ist ein Gedicht für meine Mutter
die mehr als fünfundachtzig Jahre lebte
Die ihren Frieden gefunden hat
den ich noch suche.
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#37
Tense Life
For more than half a century, I have been expanding
by crawling
by walking
by bicycle
by moped
by car
by train
by plane
by changing homes
by trying to understand people’s behaviour
in Tauberbischofsheim
in Germany
in Europe
by learning English
by chatting with the worldWill there ever be a turning point? From expansion to contraction. From moving on to moving back. How would that feel? Like coming home after a beautiful journey? Or like being arrested after years of escaping?
Am I running? Or am I on the run?
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#40
In May
A tender breeze in the warm evening light. Small groups have colonised the park. Like marmots. Sitting, chatting, turning their heads to check what is happening around them. Turning their heads like don’t believing what’s happening around them. Laughs, music, mumbling. Life has changed, has dressed up. Shapes become visible. Everything is blossoming. Cherry, chestnut, people, even me. Life is back. The end seems far away. Seems it never has been as far away as on this floating evening in May.
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#640
A slippery thought.
Brought to paper.
In this very moment.
Through technology, once cutting-edge.
Paper and pen.
Still serving everything that is needed.
Making that immediate thought last.
Forever.
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#638
What did you see
when you looked around?
The trophies of your golden years
were nowhere to be found.
from "Undertow", Kliffs
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#593
Warum ich schreibe? Um der Isolation zu entkommen. Der sprachlosen Gefangenschaft mit mir selbst. Schreiben verbindet mich. Mit mir. Mit der Welt. Wie Riechen, Fühlen und Hören bringt auch Schreiben in Kontakt. Sogar losgelöst von Raum und Zeit.
Schreiben ist im wahrsten Sinn mein 7. Sinn. Eine Super-Kraft. Keine Angst mehr vor dem Locked-In-Syndrom. Diesem Horror, bei vollem Bewusstsein, nicht mehr kommunizieren zu können. Unfähig selbst zum Zwiegespräch mit mir selbst. Weil ohne Sprache kein Denken möglich ist.
Schreiben rettet mich. Jeden Tag aufs Neue.
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#560
Listening, at 6:04 a.m.
I could have missed it. The faint humming of a bike. Behind me, on the street. While I was waiting for the tram. Someone was riding a bicycle. From left to right. From some place to some place. I didn't know why. I just knew that. And suddenly I felt connected. Undetected. The two of us. A person I don't know anything about. Only that they were riding a bike. At the same time, at the same place where I was. In the dark and early hours of this vast city. What if I had missed this? If I hadn't listened?
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#546
See Mum, see Dad, I've become autonomous. You changed my diaper, fed me, taught me. But now I am grown. I don't need you anymore. I am free. - And because I am free, I can choose to carry you always with me. What we have experienced. The travelling. The laughing. The crying. Everything is on my mind. In my heart. And I know, it always will.
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#544
„Ich bin kein Läufer, ich bin ein Wanderer, und wenn die Füße weh tun, nehm ich halt den Zug.“
- Anna Mabo
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#543
What is left when I don’t post anymore?
Not on LinkedIn, not in blogs,
not on Instagram, not on Bluesky.
When I stop telling the world
that I exist—
alive, performing,
bragging in pictures, words, arguments.
What is left when it is only me?
Myself,
and the life that presses close—
every minute, every second.
A life without likes,
without shares, without reach.
Yet a life I can touch,
that touches me now:
on this old train along the coast,
window open,
the sun on my skin,
the wind in my hair—
grey now,
but still,
still.
Can I bear such a life?
With all its cracks
no longer hidden.
With all its vibrant silence.
A life fragile in its worth,
priceless in its seeming worthlessness.
I want to dare it.
I do.
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#541
On holiday
Outside, in the distance, the mountains have disappeared behind greyness. Summer rain is falling, barely audible. The window of the hotel room is open. A light breeze carries this summer morning into the room.
Inside, me, sitting in bed, writing. Not much to do today. Finding a place for breakfast. Catching the train at 1 p.m. To leave this town. Towards another town.
But that will be in another time.
Now is the present.
The raindrops. The gentle breeze. Completeness.
Everything I longed for - in a hotel room in Villach, Austria.
Walk on 