My father never was available. I knew that he could not offer me a role model after which I could become a man. Does that even matter? Didn’t I perhaps prefer to become a woman on my own, to emulate my mother’s role?

Men were useless. I had friends, was in sports clubs. But to be a man? I did not want that.

But now it has come to me in the same way with women. I am equally disappointed in them. To be a woman is to participate in the shame of the world.

Women were the stronger persons in my life. Persons of wisdom and culturality.

The feminine is wrong, I am disappointed in it.

A child looks up to his father. Thinks he carries within him wisdom and direction. Later it turns out, there is only destruction and forlornness.

A child looks up to his mother. Thinks she is cultural and spiritual. Warm and protective. Later it turns out all that is just a facade. Behind it lies brokenness.

The feminine is a makeshift layer put together to cover despair. A substitute world to settle in the ruins of love. Or more precisely: in the ruins of one’s own desolation.