The beauty of this world that I can never fully exhaust, one day it will kill me. Faced with it, how could I ever see myself able to turn my back on a moment?
Night. Once again, nothing: I hesitate. Open ajar the front door which has become heavy at will, then solidify completely. One last lap around the block, past the bars, so that something might happen to me? To allow the wind’s gentle fingers just a little longer the play with my hair? I won't waive my obligation to exhaust the day before all has been tried: walked for hours, dreamt for kilometres. Not earlier, for night never ends. The world doesn’t wait for me. I won’t let myself be exhausted before life is: only retreat to bed to emanate anew the following morning. For what I search for is what won’t occur to me at home. What should I miss out on between fridge, intercom and standing desk?
I’m on my way somewhere. Cycle past possibilities and see worlds collapse. Perish from the impossible wish to see the moment from the perspective of each of those centres – the café filled with golden heads in the evening light, the park, the bar full of drinkers. Bloom full of hope in light of this beauty and wither in the glaring impossibility to exhaust it, for I cannot be everywhere at once. Tell myself: I must be strong; I have once been able to move from one place to another without sorrow.
In rush hour, I am denied the last steps home, for I can lean against this corner forever. Observe how after another long afternoon the whole city pours out of the metro and the cars out of the city, how the supermarkets fill and the buses. I follow higher orders: the sunny day wants to see me anywhere but within my four walls; rain draws me below the marquee that offers resonance to the drops as I do to each day’s mission. To be outside means to enable the final stage of the evolution as a pillar to the fulfilment of which every day – every sun, every rain, every wind – urges me to step in.
Painfully lies my integrity buried beneath the magnetic field of the outside. My life project falls by the wayside since the day’s comes first. Perhaps it’s because I expect double gain that I submit myself: because I expect as a reward for the perfect moment the coupling with meaning or the perfect idea. Expect to be paid for having brought the day into life as he desired. If the fulfilment of his mission only reliably helped me to that of mine, then everything would be fine!
Do I fear further, and am therein very average, to regret one day, and have I up to now only felt regret for what I have not done? My own mission, though, remains too opaque to be considered something to miss out on. Its lack of contours makes it so much less tangible than a dear long day which allows to quantify concretely whether the high approaching before night, the accident, the faces and the street music have been experienced or missed out on forever. (But until tomorrow only! Attempt to calm myself.)
What to do? Of course, I’m also grateful to understand myself as a playing piece of higher forces … Forces swayful as only projections can be ... I submit myself to their ideology. (To commit murder on the day, the moment, that is nothing less than suicide in miniature! Whether I waive this or that or directly the rest of my days, it’s the same tragedy altogether – of same kind, just of different scale! Never want to sleep anyway! Not as long as this world is here or any other! Not as long as I can live and roam the streets until I – nosedive – fall and land on the mattress in the otherwise empty apartment.)
Where a dusty camera stares at me. If I cannot enter every situation, should I just capture the moments in passing? No ... to capture a moment, to shoot it with camera or memory, that won’t work. My melancholy, even nostalgia for the possibility that I see flaring up en passant, has little to do with its immediate exterior. From outside, the desired view onto things that participation would gift me with can only be suspected. Concede every goal I waste: unable to capture the moment, it captures me. I freeze as an observer.
Only rarely instances like the following: Sit amidst crowds in the evening, this or that book unopened next to me. Sense: The sum of the feelings collected here is assembled in me, and only in me, the outsider who overlooks the scene. (Lovers on the neighbouring table: am convinced to feel stronger for them than they do for one another.)
Remain in disbelief that I even made it to this meagre stuttering … For what no text can convey is how I always stand there speechlessly, how I wish to return home but cannot, how I, empty but warm at once, never know how I feel and even less what I think …
Except: Oh, absurd life … Or: The beauty of this world which I can never fully exhaust, one day it will kill me …
Stagnate and stay to catch another glimpse of the world … whether it’s a breeze, in the morning the tiredness in the faces (a tiredness that extends beyond today), homecoming bodies and the stories beneath that I shall never learn … all the bodies and places and stories that I shall never inhabit … life which I cannot fully exhaust … won't be exhausted before life isn't ... I repeat myself, it repeats itself …
I love it and hate it. As though the meaning I see in life was not the meaning life sees in me.