In my difficulties of connecting with the theory scene (or more precisely, with the academic scene), it strikes me how artistically I work, how artist I am.

In my placelessness, I am a place. I only have to flicker, always flicker. To stay for them. Be for them.

There is no criticism that can snatch me. No judgment that can dissect me.

A dark angel, a falling star

I no longer speak of ‘us’. I speak only of myself. As if someone had gone from me.

When I do something, it’s communal. As soon as I am able to speak or move, I am with people.

I listen to a lot of Adorno recordings currently. He spoke quite a bit on the radio. It’s different from his books. And he’s not so bitingly negative. Sometimes he is, but often he isn’t. He has wit and is charming. His voice is often the softest and most beautiful among the speakers.

So. We are sick children. Parentless children. Lonely children. We are united by a certain severity. We are strict children. Imposed on us by our parents. So our life knows a great restriction. We are restricted. Obstructed, inhibited. We don’t move forward. We also have neurotic life plans. We are performance-oriented in a bad way. At the same time we are gifted. And we are, in all of this – German.

It first struck me in Alexander Kluge’s “Farewell to Yesterday”. The streets of Frankfurt, their lights, filmed in black and white. That does something to me. It elevates me. Worlds that I know. And so it is in speaking. The familiarity of German and its violence.

Who never left the bed with agony.

Whenever Vera is away, the religious practice begins. Because only then am I really alone. And always, like last year, when things really went downhill, when I really plummeted, it was during the time without them.

You have to speak to the people inside you. They must draw their faces through my words.

Ida is so imbued with love for me. And I became more important to E. through my going.

All these people I take screenshots of – they are part of my family.

It is strange how my fingers write and not me. How my hands say and not me.

Brokenness also means holding the world in its complexity: Sadness and hope, beautiful and terrible.

He opens the door and talks with a social self.

Or: she walks through the streets entirely sunken into herself, a reality I don’t know. Cap to the face, arms flanked to walls around herself. And then I speak to her, it breaks, and a real voice speaks to me.

I continue to be afraid to show my stuff. The loneliness continues to result from my heritage of non-speech; and from any other heritage that people brought to me.

Maybe I’m learning here that I need to describe more. How things are on my table, that kind of thing. Not long descriptions, but descriptions nonetheless.

Perhaps this is what I always lacked – literature? The non-figurativeness in Nietzsche etc.

It’s not often, or particularly often, that you meet someone you can be and stay with.

Often when things fall apart with a person, I attribute it to cultural things. That I’m not the way they need me to be. The way it confirms, affirms their set up world. I break with that world of theirs, I’m a thorn, a wound, a shard.

And then I think, there is no one else. Everyone I know reads these books, sticks to the common. How am I supposed to find someone whose life I don’t break. I think I would set them free, but I don’t.

BECAUSE THESE PEOPLE ARE OUTSIDERS. THE PEOPLE I LOVE AFFIRM THE EXISTING ONLY WITH HALF A HEART. AND WITH THE OTHER HALF THEY AFFIRM ME. BUT IN THE END, THE HUMUS OF THEIR EXISTENCE WINS. THAT, WHERE THEY SEE CONNECTION. THAT, WHERE THEY SENSE A SOCIETAL PROTECTEDNESS. AND NOT WITH ME. FAR AWAY FROM IT, FAR AWAY IN THE CRACK. IN THE DISSIMILARITY, IN FALLING, IN BROKENNESS.

It’s a story that goes back to my mother. Because she saw this child, and felt it, felt sympathy, but then there was the world telling her that this child could not be like that; or, that if this child was like that, she had no words for it, no approval, no affirmation. No understanding, no embracing, no supporting.

In the end, her world, the one she needed to live, won. Without which she would be nothing. Without it she would have entered into this eternal brokenness of her child – which is also her very own.

It is well known that loneliness does not arise from not having anyone around. But just by the fact that people are there, maybe even familiar ones, who feel distant, to whom you cannot build up closeness, or not enough closeness, who do not listen to you, do not understand you.

Maybe that is an outlet for my societal discomfort. That so many my age now exist as writers; that the themes, and especially the theory, that is close to me, and that means everything to me, has made it into a stronger public, into the mainstream. And with all this in a way that rather alienates me, that throws me back upon myself, that doesn’t let me connect, and that doesn’t let me step out of the shadows.

Men can be great. Erotically great, soothingly great. So great that I want to fall into their lips, into their muscles, into their calmness and gentleness.

But. I am missing something. And it was often missing. Namely, something like a constancy of heart. The certainty that the heart would always win. That the heart, in whatever form, would always have the last word. I have not had this experience with men. More precisely: I have mostly had the opposite experience. And that is the reason why I have my problem with the philosophy or theory scene. Why it is so difficult for me to access it. Why I am not drawn there with all my force. Because I have the feeling that this is not given there. That there, the heart doesn’t have the last word. Or that, much more often, it is not about the heart at all. That the heart as a compass element, as a guiding hand, doesn’t seem to be present at all.

In the end, a world that is not mine wins.

She repeats how good and right it is to end this now, and that if it continued, it would end quite disastrously for both of us.

What lying creatures, fable creatures we humans are. What dreams we dream. One could think that the dreams we weave, the colorful murals that run in the dark through the threads of nocturnality, our hopes and expectations coming into being, make up more of us, make up a greater part of our thinking and existence than actual material things and their necessities, such as eating, washing, talking, and so on. So not only is the world, the human world, thoroughly narrated, it is not only a fabric of contexts of meaning that change with the passage of time, no, it is also wholly and completely a specter world, a dream world, a world of our projections, our plays of color and imaginings. We ride through the world on unicorns. We are in ecstasy. We suffer in agony in all-cutting gloom. When are we really ‘here’, when do we see what really ‘is’? Or in other words: when are we merely ‘social’, that is ‘present', and ‘with the others’? Are we not rather dream beings ghosting around? As dream beings we instigate ourselves, participate in commonality, as if it were not (and generally nothing) real.

Not a day passes without the singing of time

Pudding breakfast.

In the kitchen yet I could think better

When you are with someone
You have to deal with their whims
I have to pick up broken pieces so often
They should be my broken pieces

In the end, it’s all about validation, being needed, love, needing others, loving others, validating others.

In the evening I get weak, and it is strange because I go into my days off from work with so much hope and urge, and then, after two days, I realize how lonely I am, how I don’t know how to go on.

People do not know any common activity. Or the activity is merely: to work.

And then yet, there are the girls. Are there the girls who see me. Find me beautiful. Are most afraid. Are insane, have their problems. And I don’t want them neither. I want a society. I want to be in a pool with others. In a class, in a group, in an association. I want to be present in the midst of people. Within whom I can blossom. As such they can see me. And in their place I cease to languish.

But that I today did, now did, wanted for me something good, or burned deeply from within, beds my pain; calms it.

The German language is a gift. And even if Germany has spilled with firmest certainty all shine (it has fallen off irretrievably somewhere in the course of world time), this shine AND FIRST OF ALL THE LOVE is embedded in this language. Because that nobody never says. Only that the language rules over us as a system of power, holds all abominations and oppresion in itself. But not, that LOVE, everything therefore, is just as kept in it, contained in it. And that it also continues to have its effect as a SYSTEM OF BRINGING TOGETHER, as a power opportunity of the good, and perhaps, over the times, has done not too bad of a service for love.

Those who speak of God in this day and age have had to overcome many obstacles.

How lonely is the heart

Good means: disclosing one’s motives, not disguising them.
Bad is: veiled motives, veiled actions.

Only if we believe in the humanity of those who are others to us, this world can be endured.

There are the hard and cold people, they call themselves men. And there are those for whom life is meant. These are us women.

We can only scream in the swan song of the world

The commandment of the hour must be to break away from all this, not to ingratiate ourselves, not to attach ourselves, not to submit ourselves in a newer and enlightened determination.

The prevailing feeling when I look through the streets is a not being loved.

Being tougher? Not doubt at all? It works. But what if I also want to show off, to surrender, to the lap, to the hands, to the warm space holding me.

I am getting smarter and smarter, even if I pay for it with pieces of my heart.

No blessing is to be made with you, no salvation to behold, no song to sing. Somewhere in your closed eyes our initial love crashes to the ground.

It comes from an earlier time, when the abuse still poured over us unprotected, like a all-encompassing summer shower.

No sense is in the making. Only scraps of my being, scraps of my walking in the reflections of light.

Where do we see our salvation?

Claws and arms of society. Healing around me. Held in this place.

It is an unreal world. That which is there around me does not exist. Perhaps also because the people themselves do not exist. In their unbrokenness, in their coherence, in the appearance of their sociality. There is nothing, no human, no being, no love. It would only arise in the addressing of it.

And so it is now that my life has changed. After I as a teenager despised this world out of fear or intuition, understood it as a land of death. Instead of it came a kissing with these mummies and buried people, these who don’t-want-to-feel-the-pain. These still-attached-to-the-world-and-holding-on-to-life. And I ought to break on them.

The common ones are burning up in the clutter of the present. Without glory, without the tremendous hope of a new time.

AND WHERE ARE THE PATHS OF THE TO COME. WHERE IS THE DEW, THE SWEETNESS, AND THE WAY? I SAW IT, EXPLORED IT, I’LL BE BACK, BRUISED FROM THE HEDGES. TO SHOW YOU WHAT I SAW.

With people who have any positive relationship with their family, that is, their elders, and be it their siblings (or having mostly friends who do), I am incompatible.

I am a swan song, a total restriction of this way of life.

AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME HOW I WAS EVERYTHING IN YOUR DISCRETION, IN YOUR FAILING, IN THE SOBBING OF YOUR HEART. HOW YOU STOOD THERE ALONE, AND OUT OF VANITY OR PIETY OF WHAT WAS COMMANDED TO YOU, DID NOT SPEAK TO ME, DID NOT RISE TO ME, DID NOT MAKE THE HONEST ATTEMPT. HOW YOU PERISH AND REMAIN IN A DISPOSITION APPROPRIATE TO YOU.

No world to knit, no path to light, no territory to reach.

How I drew from you in the water of hope, in your presence

Describing is like that: the processes, beings, figures, become real, enter into me, become tactile in the grasping of my hands, speakable as words from my mouths, and actable as shared experiences of our spirits. As your body is mine as lived experience in which we consorted.

So your belly is taut, soft skin. Athleticism. Entangling under my body. Bending and disbelieving to see such a thing, desiring and melting, beneath me. And your hair, when I reach the limits of my strength, bracing against your arousals, the exhaustion of my hands to hold you in moving. And then you stand in the room and around your waist is the towel like a Persian rug, and your hair is streaked to the side. The leaves outside the window are glowing. And everything rushes as if on the street there was the sea – which we have jointly taken here.

And in the conversations with my fictional therapist, I tell indispensably that you, yes You, are the only reason I am still alive, ever was alive. Because you were like a daughter, and showed me what it is to be a family.

No thing too big, no dream too distant, no reality too piercing.

For in spite of everything, and perhaps I am simply wired, or too isolated, I have rarely, never, felt such a kinship in being with, such a vibrancy in togetherness, as with you. But all that doesn’t matter, you don’t want to hear it. I have already tried to say that, and it seeped away unheard.

No leaves have gone, no river has flowed, no fate has been with you.

No heart blossomed, no sky cried,
no eyes lay within us sweetly

I want to create something again – because creating something actually means: to step up to others and be seen by them.

I actually want people who are torn apart. For whom every step too much into people’s eyes is souring doom. Who can’t do it. Because I can’t.

So much of personal fortune is a societal one.

And it then also becomes clear why it is a falling prey that happens.

I am lonely. Have I said that already?

Missing love and security, thinking of E.
Even if I did not receive it there.

Becoming tired and disengaged

Life is engagement. That is why it is often easier to stay in a terrible relationship than to be alone.

Being shot

Come to my well, desperate I lie there.
Here is the well, and there is the house around it.

For as no heart is looking after you.

This economic system. It almost becomes likeable to me as a bad idea.

I sting in the wet wood and try to make a burning.

But what if you want to make this attempt, to bring this world into the here, but the particular depends on the fact that it is supported, or recognized, by another person? So, you want to create a positive moment on the street, or with a person in a stairwell, but that person thinks you are a lunatic, or just ignores you, or, in the worst case, translates the moment into an eternal failure?

Tthis is probably the difficulty that all of us humans face, and one that, admittedky, I don’t deal well with.