The circle.

Exhausted, lonely. Worn out. Then I am honest and kind. I cultivate love and empathy and take my time to reflect and understand. I suddenly realize that I have arrived in that world where communication is possible, but nobody is there. It is this real world where I am real for a short time. Where one is close to the pain. Where people can meet without masks, for a short time. I’m sending out signals. Then time passes, and I wait. The waiting makes me harden. Time rinses and drags like water into my inner hands and where I care for dreams and am mindful, it washes the dreams out of my hands like sand. Especially between autumn, winter and spring. I grow cold and forget. Not because people have forgotten me or because I wanted to let go. But simply because too much time passes and too many new impressions are coming.

Then an answer arrives. I’m somewhere else now. I’ve forgotten what I was reflecting. I’m at a different point in my life now. Just when I am at this other point, the answer arrives, a possibility. A portal. I can’t stretch back. The effort is not enough and I only rush around superficially, stretching and turning back to fulfill a duty and assure my loyalty. The person doesn’t want the empty faithfulness. I am sad that for the person fidelity has no value, only the “happening”. The person wants the happening immediately and without delay at the very moment when I am no longer ready for the happening because too much time has passed. Was it one day too much or one week too much. You can’t say it exactly, but approximately it was just too much time. I am too cold to get angry or to blame the person. I do not understand why the person tramples on me. I know the person is not really trampling on me, but it feels that way to me. I feel drained and lonely.

Then it starts all over again. This time I feel a bit more like a spectator and I am not as much of a part of it as last time, but with more defiance and in between the ego splinters through and would like to have the promised sugar. Because every now and then you see that there is sugar in dreams. If the language is too stupid and the dreams too simple, then the anger comes up in the other person. Suddenly talking becomes tiring and the exchange turns into a skirmish between trenches. A demonstration of my lifeblood is required. A sample of my blood to prove my worth. I cannot give this (deliberately misspelled contextually). I no longer feel anything – my inner counterpart intervenes in my writing and covers what I have written with Trojan horses; the desire of the sample annoys the “happening”. The trials are never over. My blood has become worthless for this moment. It only has value again, when time passes and my strength returns. The vampire sucks whenever there is no more blood or the blood has become worthless. I always give him the empty throat and feel like a fraud. Then I hate myself again for my exaggerated precision. I react to my counterpart like clockwork. I follow a self-chosen path that consists of the moments I savour or prolong in such a way that they maintain the necessary kind of distance in exactly the right way to prevent exactly what might surprise me.

Now I have finished typing this. It feels like looking at a pressed insect or a dried butterfly, which is put into a book in which other such dried snapshots of life have already been stored for later reconsideration. Then I see myself from the outside and see how I am put down into a house where other people are put down as well, for later reconsideration.

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