Illustration by Büke Schwarz

On Emotional Writings

I dislike emotional writings. That is, my emotional writings. And yet, it's what I do. It's what fills my blog, my entries, this line. My words, they stretch for emotions, because they're easy to entwine. It's easy to whine.

Easy. That's the reputation we uphold. We spread and learn and spread that emotions are a threat. That emotions are for savages, for those who lack the mind to enforce control. Out of fear of the primitive, we leave the wild and hide in the cities.

Surrounded by ever-growing buildings splitting the air, we are thankful for the confined space to think. We embrace the narrow rooms to feel. And while I don't hide, I am scared enough to know that I should dislike what I do.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Being Alone in His Home

It's odd. Being alone in his home is odd. It's the closest he can be without seeing me. Instead I see him. The place is brimming. It's brimming with him. It's photographs, books and a countless kept things. Each detail so confident, so sweet, so effortlessly placed on its on feet.

All the things in this home possess their own wandering spot. They belong. They have for years. But the question is: to whom? I touch this. I touch that. But who is touching me back? Is it him? Is it her? I cannot help feeling a pinch.

Of course, this place has a past. And of course, the memory lasts. I have places and memories, too. But none that I loved, let alone for years. I want to feel at ease. And I want make peace, peace with his home, with the place nearest to the past of his heart. So, I accept and concentrate on the books. The books! He is in the books.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Büke Schwarz

I cannot claim to know her well, not yet, but that's what I know: Büke is an artist, a real artist. She is an artist that makes art, tangible art. She is tangibly real. Yet she is not just alive. She is lively, yes. But Büke is more. Büke is industrious, committed and true. She is everything I expect an artist to be. And yet she it not. She is nothing like the perpetual Berlinian dreamer. She is not hoping for some day. For Büke, all days are some day.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Trusted Inspiration

The things that inspire me, the ones that work, that I return to when the page wrestles for blankness, are things that promise comfort. And comfort, for me, are stories.

Stories flatter. It's beautiful. It's beautifully biased realities that offer comfort, that fuel me. Other people's dream machines fuel me. The noise, the sound of them huffing and puffing, sings my ego to sleep. So, I can take the leap. It's theft. I am a legal thief. I steal comfort to create blissful illusions of my own.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Being Irresponsible

It's been a day of irresponsible decisions. Decisions that deride my goals. I know my law. And yet I thought I could afford to forget. Today, I have been my defiance's pet. I ignored the tools and parenthesized my rules.

Again and again, I revolt against my own benefit, against what's best. To prove what? That I can? That objectives are no ban? Every time, I compete against me, I lose. That is, one part, the other wins. It is the moment versus the future.

I want balance between both, but the scale feels broken. Today, the moment weighs a ton. It seems I nailed its weighing pan to the ground, while my future dangles pettily in the air. And I doubt it's a pleasant view up there.

Of course, I'm being dramatic. But perhaps, that's not so bad. Perhaps, I exaggerate to see. I exaggerate to find the tools and to underline the rules. I use it. I use it to recall my decisions' infinite tie. It's drama! Perhaps, it's drama that bends my scale back into shape.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Remembering Who I Am

Whenever things get busy, I cannot keep up with myself. Caught in a brainless frenzy, I run. I run without knowing. Then I do, hear or see something that reminds me of me. And I stop. I realize that I am exhausted, that I am stressed, that I have been acting to make a better fit. And again, I am questioning my grit.

People have expectations. They play roles. People must conform to control. Deviating from the norm, is reserved for the foolishly free, for the long-sheltered brave. Unfortunately, I have learned to behave. My words obey. And what's worse: they rhyme. I cannot stop. I have no choice but to cover my ears and to close my eyes. So, I run.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Big Ideas

For me, dreaming up big ideas progresses like a story. In a short amount of time, I experience a five-act inner play. First, there is incitement. Then there is excitement, that soon turns into frightment. Frightment is my climax, my crossroad, my moment to decide whether to fight or flight. Usually, I resolute to run. Dreaming is easy. Dreaming is fun.

Some ideas are more stubborn than others. They keep driving me back. They force me to make the same painfully sweet climb over and over again: I rise, I hesitate, I run. It's frustration, not fun. It's a solitary dare with the objective to put my passion to the test. It is self-destruction at its best.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

  
On Being Hungover

I like being drunk. I dislike being hungover. Nonetheless, I know that my now would have no chance fighting my yesterday. So, I deal. I feel the throb between my brows. I feel the pressure of the sun light on my eyes. I feel the need to never do it again, to have not ten, but one. One pint of beer, instead of this body's jeer.

I'm not a drunkard. No, I'm not. I'm bad at moderation. Hell, I am. There is no balance. There is no restraint. Will I ever be the type of person who bribes her liver with an extra bottle of water? The one that knows that there are many more evenings to come. The one that stops, that is ready to let go. Do I want to be her?

I have been found by someone whose presence cheesily reminds me of tomorrow, of what is yet to come. So, the alleged final round is no longer final. It's no longer the last chance to buy. It's a decision made by two who had ten. And that is soothing.