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.