Sino-American unrest that tosses us all. (July 2, 2020)

I would encourage to consider power in the world at a level above politics. The idea of a political system is a way in which social systems try to display governmental decisions, that are decisions of supposedly politicians and their people, managing themselves and their interactions with other countries.  I would also suggest to consider it in terms of the invisible multibillionaires, who are nameless and do not give words to the lay people directly, but who coordinate massive international infrastructures and resources, which are in this modern world more powerful than the perceived ‘unity of function’ that would make a country work. 

Those resources are seen by lay people as the countries that offer them, for example oil (the Middle East), workforces (China and India), and technology development (USA and China), but frameworks or companies serve to extract or exploit these resources, and the leaders of the frameworks that do this, are the real power. Governmental and international laws are in turn, shaped partly to what that society has been educated to believe is morally tolerable to avoid conflict with ‘people who read the news’ , but also shaped to what allows these frameworks and companies to maximise their efficiency and profitability for the handful of people at the very top to have the most as possible (the top being much higher than any president). The entire press of the world is the distraction to indulge populations in dialogue with themselves about ‘ethics’ and ‘end-user business’ and ‘emotive small stories’ as a function to make people believe that their concerns are realised by other people and that they have a freedom and transparency in their thoughts and actions, which the government serves as an illusion to sustain as well. 

This development of technologies is a large part of the capitalism, that every single object in the developed home is a product of commercialisation and increasing efficiency and quality, which are driven by competition and refinement to lower cost, which are encouraged by a “free economy” and increasing wealth, which makes these comforts common and available to more and more people; all true technological development which is applied in the world is a product of capitalistic pursuit and its marketing. It’s marketing that is the alternate form of the press to show us that we need these things to make our life better by consuming them. 

You may therefore be able to consider that everything you do upholds an order that is fundamentally controlled by a few few people at the very top. The balance of the world economy is the biggest and coolest toy that will make the thirsty people rise and fall, and the nonchalant people slowly persist, following their ‘intrinsic satisfactions’ which give a sense of ‘self fulfilment’ in a way that is seemingly unrelated to greater powers, but their naivety is actually a luxury with which they are vested. 

The world shift from royal power to money, which enabled people who were not born in great to achieve partial greatness, in time, is what enabled the opportunity for social hierarchy to be climbed, very slowly, and therefore have an incentive to want to develop because there was the chance. At the fundamental level, all true development seeks to make the lives of people more comfortable and to reduce physical “work done”. 

Political freedoms and a democracy construct is a luxury that emerged when people were not as poor anymore and could speak out about being caught lower on the hierarchy; “Germany could not afford to pretend to be socialist, if it had not previously underwent a capitalist revolution to ensure its people a fundamental wealth in the first place.” At the end of the day, the only real problem in the world is the extreme poverty and hunger of poor countries, and some humanitarian goal will be to either ensure these societies the same fundamental comforts of the developed world, which is almost impossible due to corruption, or simply see these people perish. 

I wished we could have travelled here together. (June 14, 2020)

I am standing at the edge of a mighty precipice overlooking the tundra. The dry wind is blowing through my hair, rising with the heat of the valley below. I stare into the clear distance for as far as my eyes can see. The canyon is vast and barren, with some bushes interspersed amidst the great expanse. The sun beats overhead with a merciless heat that shines through the thin, crisp air of this world. The rocks bask underneath the scorching day, while radiating their heat into the bitter night. 

I am lying on the grass of a solitary hill in the middle of the savannah. The dry wind carries with it the passing time which quickly races through me to some place far away. I gaze at the fragile clouds that float above me with uncertainty. The plains are endless to my comprehension but they must end somewhere in the distance I cannot see.

I am lying on the grass of the solitary hill, alone in the nothingness of the uncharted landscape that only knows desolation. I can feel your presence in this very spot. You were lying in this field when you stopped during your journey. The dried out blades of grass are crusheed and the soil underneath is compressed by your weight. I can feel your aura lingering over this patch of land otherwise lost in the endlessness of the bleak landscape.

I am staring at the ground where I can see you were, alone in the nothingness and unprotected from the wilderness. I can see you sitting where I wish I had been to embrace you, and catch each and every single tear as it slowly rolled down your soft face. I wanted to be there at the same time, but I could not. I wished we could have travelled here together, or never at all, but it was too late and we were in different worlds at the same time. 

I am feeling your existence next to me. A momentary remnant of your essence, liberated in the upset particles that rise through the air. Your form slowly precipitates in front of me and for a moment I reach out to touch you. For an instant, I feel your skin with my fingertips. I am caressing your precious being for that one second that you materialise in front of me. In that second, I stare once more into your brown eyes and into their depths. In the shiny lustre that glazes your eyes, I see reflected back at me the consciousness vested in my self in that moment and my eternal longing to feel you close to me. I reach further to wrap my arm around you but your being quickly dissolves into the non-existence of the air from which it first appeared. 

I am sitting on the dry land in the middle of this wasteland. I feel your incarnation next to me as you were writhing in despair. I was in this spot a long time ago before you were even here the first time. Now I can see the marks in the ground where you were flinching in pain. I wanted to be here when you were here. I never would have let you alone here in the mercilessness. But I did not know you were in this world and I could not have tried to save you. 

I am seeing a stream of clouds churning in the edge of the sky, a whirlwind of darkness dragged along on the meteorological conveyor belt. The wind that passes across me becomes cold as the light of the sky above me is pulled to the side. The world plunges into a relentless darkness. Each breath becomes more and more laboured in the weight of the thick gloom. The clouds begin to unleash a downpour that floods the wasteland. My shoulders are stiff from within. The raindrops beat on me. An unsettlement expands from my core and propagates through my body. I become drenched in a cold wetness.  My throat begins to tighten as I can feel myself struggling to breathe. My eyes water from being ravished by nature's forces and at the realisation that you drowned here. My whole body is tense with a paralysing unease. I am simultaneously drowning and starving in this world, rigid from being devoid of your touch. The land is flooded with torrential waters and I am struggling to stay afloat. 

I am awaking on the flat sand of a pristine white-sand beach. I feel the tiny waves gently lapping against my feet as I walk along the endless coastline. The air is still and the wind is absent. The ripples of the great expanse of crystalline water are glistening under the blinding sun. Time itself stands still in the calm after the storm. I spot footsteps in the soft sand. Your footsteps. Engraved into the sand and persisting immortally in the vacuum of this world. They are walking along the beach into the fading distance. 
I am following them to you.

Blending into the barren Wasteland that surrounds Heathrow. (June 12, 2020)

A final afternoon in our world of temporal disregard, this time in the land of meteorological non-delight. The day’s mood was consumed by a subtle yet haunting dread which anticipated our divergence the following afternoon. A prolonged car ride away from my home that was not a home. The car was otherwise comfortable and his quiet snoring was amusing. It was a fresh, half-sunny, half-overcast, afternoon. The rays of colourless light were shining pity between the clouds, on our disappointment at the close of our three-week episode of isolation. 

Arriving at the driveway of the uninspiring hotel was a partial relief that ended the awkward tension between the driver and us. The reception appeared as a temporary desk transformed into an open office that occupied the space of something which called itself a lobby. The hotel presented itself as inhospitable as the plains of overgrown vegetation that surrounded the airport, so much so that apart from its superstructure and accompanying expressway, it seemed to blend into the barren wasteland that surrounded Heathrow. A single floor’s elevator ride and a moderate walk through a damp hallway away was our room. Its interior was continuous with the unremarkable corridor. A woodiness lent some comfort to the room, of which the bathroom stole almost half the space. A minuscule desk with a humble chair sat on the carpeted floor, which was damp from the leaking bathroom which also wet my socks. Once our belongings and our selves were in the room, there was little space for anything else, but I guess there did not need be. 

Some sunlight which persisted outside shone into the room, but despite a lack of clouds, the light and the room felt enveloped in a grey blanket. The air on the other side of the window seemed thin, as though it could not support life. Some loose shrubbery congregated in a small corner by the wall of the building opposite, somehow proving there was enough vitality in the air to sustain the last remaining traces of the natural world in the no man’s land. I could not decide whether the room was cozy or whether it was slowly threatening to suffocate us. 

After putting our lugagge down, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at me with his adorable brown eyes, while momentarily biting his soft red lips. His playful seductiveness illuminated my sensory perception and made me decide that the room was indeed cozy with him in it. I had to liberate his irresistible lips with my own and so I perched right next to him and wrapped my arms around his shoulders as our mouths felt each other’s. We snacked on some fruit and shrimp which we had brought with us on our journey. He had a tea, I had a coffee, and we shared a smoothie. Sitting on the edge of the tiny chair, one of the shrimp slipped from the grip of my fork, and it with its water fell onto the side of my backpack within an absurd, humorous second. A small idiosyncratic moment engraved into the fabric of the bag, which was already fraying with the wear that had accumulated over the years and miles. 

We laid on the bed for some hours, dazed and energised at the same time. Our carnal desire for each other was steadily increasing and at some point we curbed our hunger by arranging dinner downstairs, where we were told to order from the phone in the room from an extensive menu of 4 choices. We soon picked up and ate an unhealthy yet savourable meal. 

We laid on the bed immersed in each other, covered by a haze of melancholia that made the back of my throat feel tight. My eyes were covered by a thin lustre that formed at the perturbance of our inevitable separation, but which also glowed with my appreciation of the beauty of his physical and mental form. A hidden unsettlement which I could not let rise to the surface. We entertained ourselves into the night with our own words and some amusing videos. 

Existing so close to one another on the bed for so long, we intermittently teased each other with our touch and our tongues. Our craving for each other eventually escalated as we began to undress. He consumed me passionately while satisfying my appetite at the same time. We basked in a post-coital euphoria where his upper body laid in the cradle of my left arm. His being rested so perfectly next to mine. 

I caress his smooth skin, longing to connect with his graceful soul. We lie on our sides, staring into the depths of each other’s eyes, my arms hold him tight and close as though I am clinging onto the last glimmer of hope in the perseverance of compassion amidst the desolate wasteland of my world. His body radiates an unregulated warmth next to my own, underneath the soft blankets, our heat dissolving off into the crispy air of the cold room, as we slowly drift into the dreamworld. 

We awoke in the morning and he hurried downstairs to pick up a small breakfast for us to share later in the day. He returned to the bed and we continued to enjoy the warmth of each other for some more hours. His sensual existence pressed against mine, quickly reactivating my carnal desires and this time I consumed him while also quenching this thirst. An hour later we left the hotel room. 

We killed the overly ample time of the afternoon by commuting between terminals and dropping off baggage. In those moments we were able to sneak some unobserved kisses. We dreaded as the time for him to progress to the airside approached. We shared extended hug. Part of me feared to feel him filter through my arms and dissolve into the wide yonder of the impatient world, while the other part of me pulled him as tight as possible to sense his calming and ever-present aura closer to my own soul. After that moment, I knew that I would crave to feel him in my arms and that my heart would not rest until exactly that would happen again. 

End of Year 2019 (December 31, 2019)

I am thankful for another year of beautiful stories, of unique journeys that have taken me to familiar and new places. 

It has been a satisfying journey of rekindling the greatness that unites people through their common realisations, appreciating the refinement and scrutiny that makes someone value what they have; discussing the shortcomings of existence in a place that takes for granted the things for which you believed should be fought; keeping connections which have been threatened by persisting distance; delighting in the beauty of language; witnessing that some things that could go wrong will; perpetuating ever-present mortal desires in the everyday, driving endlessly with going nowhere, and realising the shortcomings of a mundane existence. 

I am glad to have achieved an internal closure that has facilitated sustainability. I have been intrigued by seeing the hidden beauty of small niches in the countryside. I have been fulfilled by being able to sustain a meaningful connection which will last indefinitely. I appreciate the transition that has unfolded. I value the knowledge and perceptions you will always give me. (T)

I am happy to have shared another beautiful year. I am happy with time spent in four countries and seeing some of those places in a new light. I have been immersed by discovering the depths of a faraway land by a false sea where the wind knows no mercy and where the nights are long. I am filled by what has transpired. I am moved by the convolution that has sometimes made it difficult and, at the same time, stronger. (L)

I am delighted to see the fate of the unexpected experiences together. I value the way in which a familiar place can be witnessed in a way that makes it seem even more beautiful than it originally seemed. I have been enchanted by the post-midnight dreamworld. I am engrossed by your intellectual and physical existence for time as I know it. (N)

“The stars are still being beautiful on the nights you cannot see them.”

“Some people don’t deserve the air they breathe”. ––Henrik

“We are simply better.” ––Natalie

“I want everything to end.” ––Lara

“You remind me that things have never changes and should never really” ––Yousef

“It’s underage so of course you like it” ––Lukas

“People like them don’t understand and never will.” ––Niklas

“I don’t have a driver’s license. I prefer to be driven.” ––Julien

“If I would have meant you, I would have said your name.” ––Tom

“The popularity of this world is as transient as it’s glory.”

“Take a moment to breathe the breath of life and realise that everything else does not matter; that the gift of your physiological and psychological balance is the gift of the universe, that tonight and tomorrow belong to you and to your fate, that your ambition is simultaneously precious and worthless, shaping what could be, and what could be in your way on your self-designated path of endless flagellation towards a distant and unattainable place called happiness.”

Another Post-Midnight Dreamworld (December 2, 2019)

The piercing cold of the winter evening bites your cheeks as the wind carries it past you. The natural world is as relentless as it is merciless. Another evening in the hometown that is not your hometown, a place where your heart was first broken and where it still lives.  

The bustling of the Weihnachtsmarkt exudes a late-year enthusiasm into the Altstadt, and the murmur of the nightlife pours into the cobblestoned streets, flooding the place with an alcohol-induced liveliness. The night is still young, and the feelings are still fresh. The mulled wine is sweet and sweetened by the amaretto and his smile.

Your thoughts and time are whizzing, your mind is still drenched in the wine from the flight with which you arrived several hours prior. Your speech and excitement are fizzing, your hype inflated by the bubbles of the champagne you had in the room earlier. Your effervescence prevents you from sinking into the beauty of the moment or into the enchantment of his company. 

The evening passes quickly into night as impatiently as the artificial lights that try to penetrate it. In the restaurant and in the bar, he plunges into the oblivion with you, becoming your accompaniment in the stupor. Your consciousnesses run away with the passing time and at some point, are returned to you when the unforgiving cold stabs you as you go outside.

The wind carries the cold past you and steals your oblivion away. The mercilessness of the winter is sobering. You hurry with him over the cobblestoned street, away from the flooding nightlife: that is, the life that tries to overcome the night. The dark intensity is stunning and enveloping. It consumes you almost as much as the idea of him.

The Rheinuferpromenade and the stories which you have created with her are disturbed and reincarnated by you trampling over their remnants that lie along the riverside. The nights of sitting on benches and seeing the lights of the city reflected over the scintillating water, where you many years ago were asked to imagine sitting with someone you truly loved, the year when you did that, and the years you have spent nights with friends from whom you are now distant.

…

You are hit by the warmth of the grand hotel that has been your home away from home for the last 5 years. The arrogance of the indoors is cold and warm when contrasted by the freezing outside.

His beautiful physical form is a pleasure to your eyes and your touch. Seeing and hearing him and his instrument and the harmony that is their totality submerges you in the performance and reignites your lost love of real music. His expression and perception make you think again. His being reminds you of the things you missed so much. His intellect makes you believe that you are so different yet so similar.

Time is always running faster when you are with him, but you remain nonchalant and unperturbed because the world stands still when you are in his company. Your bodies and your thoughts are untouchable in the post-midnight dreamland above the Königsallee. You are a little dazed by the bottle of champagne that sits on the soft tablecloth of the room service trolley as it watches your infatuated mind trying to open his

You have persisted with him into the lateness of the night into which even the nightlife outside has begun to die. The music spills quietly in the background, some of is absorbed by the soft carpet. You sit at the edge of the luxurious bed which sinks at the weight of your craving. You kiss him slowly and innocently as though he was your first. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull his chest towards yours so you can almost feel his heartbeat against yours. You want for this moment to last forever and if ever had an end you would want it to be with him in your arms.

The matrimony of the depth of his soul and the allure of his form foster your mesmerisation in his very existence. These enchanting episodes drown you in a euphoria that only leaves you wanting more. You try to float on the surface of your feelings so that you do not sink into the blindness of the non-reality where you always desire something greater. You realise that regardless of your and his fate, the realisation that there was once something special means it always will be special in some way, much like how stars are still being beautiful on the nights you cannot see them.

The Things that Persist Inside (November 5, 2019)

Sometimes you think that you can no longer fall into the infatuation. Sometimes you manage so well to skim over the surface of your emotional existence that the deep and concerning thoughts do not penetrate your oblivion but fade into nothingness and night.  

Amidst the beautiful escapes you secure for yourself, you plunge wilfully into the beauty of the night but none of the nothingness. The darkness of the outside is pierced by the proud streetlamps of the city centre and by the falsely masculine cars that occupy the driveway. The bustling of the outside is sustained by the hurried people, impatient vehicles and their frustrated interactions. The light of the inside is sustained by the chandeliers in the foyers and concealed lights within the cornices. The bustling of the outside is resisted by the two-layers of doors in the lobby, the two layers of glass in every window and muffled by the thick, continuous carpet underfoot. The outside and inside are kept separate to ensure that the pollution of sound, light and air from outside do not touch the muffled sound, recreated light, and filtered air of the inside.

The interior of the luxury hotel is adorned with pretty fixtures, upholding the pretentiousness which keeps the arrogant at ease. It is nonetheless beautiful to the eyes. It is a sanctuary in the city where the struggles and stresses are dissolved in the serenity and where the worries and woes are lost in the wealth. The marble is glistening, the bronze is shimmering; but the chandelier is collapsing, the air is suffocating, and the footsteps are drowning. The beauty is alluring but lifeless because this world is immortal. 

The room is spacious and decadent, with every comfort you could sensibly desire; yet, its vastness proves unwelcoming. When you show him into the room, it feels warmer and more complete. He makes the place become what you wish it to be. The beauty becomes intriguing and vital, but that is because it is his beauty.

Despite the long-awaited anticipation for finally meeting, you distance yourself from your expectations. To your joy, you realise he is a better incarnation of the impression which you had created prior. His face is a pleasure to your sight, whose sharp features delight your satisfaction in the proportions. His body is a sensation to your touch, whose lean masculinity arouses your appreciation of the carnal. His voice is an enchantment to your attention, whose charm triggers your susceptibility to the impressions, and whose simultaneous foreignness and closeness brushes you into the trap that is his aura.

You regret not staring long enough into his eyes when the time was there. Your thoughts were racing and skimming on the surface of those moments, not considering how much they could mean later. You were lured into his eyes where you were not drawn to anything in particular but instead were captivated by an absolute paleness. To your delight, the night still lasted long into the lateness and never faded into the nothingness.

You shared so much in those precious days and nights, but it was not enough. The only thing of which you had too much was alcohol and you should have had less of it and instead consumed more of him. Connected in body and mind, momentarily, but with something persisting, indefinitely.

The pseudo-equilibrium of your psychological self has been disrupted by him. He has made it more difficult for you to exist in the new home that is not your real home. You hope that you could cultivate something with him more than those few nights that now feel like a distant time of the past. The euphoria of those moments overflows from your memories and floods your destinies, shaping the path that is and what could be. There is too much nostalgia for you to tolerate in this moment, so you must give it to the future. That future where your hopes are burning with the lust of meeting him again, amidst the fresh euphoria, as you open the door to the room where those memories live themselves out once more. 

The Air of the Night (June 29, 2019)

We lose touch of our true selves because we are too caught up in the constructs of our lives.

The moment belongs to you and no one else, do not let the thoughts of others or of things corrupt your mind. 

Breathe and breathe the breath of life. 

Feel and feel the feeling of what it means to be alive. 

Sense the blow of the mighty wind and savour the wrath of the burning sun. 

Breathe and breathe the breath of life. 

Listen and hear the sound of what it says to be alone. 

Alone in the vastness of everything.

Walk through the city after dark, without your phone, without anything. Ignore the people and the cars. The night is yours. Tonight and tomorrow belong to you, and only you. 

Nobody and nothing; your home, your friends and your family are nowhere.

It is just you, breathing the breath of life. Alone, but alive. 

You can exist, alone. Nothing else but your mind and your person matter. Every single other person, their dialogue, their comfort and their distraction are redundant.  An unending show that takes the attention away from your own self.

You do not need people or things. You do not need distraction. You have your self and your self-awareness. You can exist, alone and alive, because your emotional and intellectual being is superior to those that need to pacify themselves with the preoccupation that is society. 

Take a moment to breathe. Wander through the dark of the winter night. Through the middle of the city, by the sea or by the river. Hear the silence that is nothingness. The persistence of the wind and the merciless of the dark. 

Realise that no other person may disrupt the equilibrium that is the independent you. 

Consider that the comfort of those for whom you care and the comfort of those you believe care about you is lost, and that no one cares about anything except that caring may bring them comfort. 

The moment you stop skimming on the surface of your own life will be the moment you dive into the mystery that is yourself. Self-awareness is not knowing that you are socially awkward or un-photogenic, self-awareness is knowing why you cheated on the one you thought you loved, knowing why you chose your career, why you aspire to the ideals to which you aspire, and what these mean to you, without any reference to people. 

Let go of your addictions, the addictions that prevent you from reaching yourself. Not only addictions of substance, your alcohol, your drugs and your sex; but addictions of preoccupying yourself. Addictions to busying yourself with your occupation, your sports and your social media. The only pseudo satisfaction from your addiction is the illusion of progression and the escape from a real truth. 

The reality in which you indulge yourself is not a reality, but a shallow pool of outward interactions and projections which you have been led to falsely believe fulfil you. Oblivion through busyness is not fulfilment, and will never be.

Take a moment to breathe the breath of life and realise that everything else does not matter; that the gift of your physiological and psychological balance is the gift of the universe, that tonight and tomorrow belong to you and to your fate, that your ambition is simultaneously precious and worthless, shaping what could be, and what could be in your way on your self-designated path of endless flagellation towards a distant and unattainable place called happiness.

Venture into the depth of the night, and explore your own self. Penetrate the mystery of your thoughts amid the false silence of the landscape, of the traffic in the urban or the nature in the rural. The cars that traverse in the distance and the wind blows in the near are passing faster than your thoughts will ever be able to race, because everything is moving faster than the rate at which you can actually appreciate most things for what they are. 

You can inhale the air of the air. 

It is just you, breathing the breath of life. Alone, but alive. 

Beautiful, shallow and perpetually inadequate.