Ey! ...
Jo, was is?
Komm ma her.
Ugh, warum?
Ich will was machen, weisst du?
Manchmal bist du echt schräg.
Ja ich weiss, gehört sich so.
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Ein 73 sekündiger Spaziergang zum nächsten Baum beginnt. Sie dreht sich mehrmal um, um zu sehen, dass die Party weiter geht. Heute ist Freitag und sie hatten sich entschlossen auf der Wiese neben dem Wald ein Lagerfeuer zu zünden. Sie will, dass er sich gegen den Baum lehnt, so hat sie sich das immer ausgemahlt. Angeleuchtet wird nun nur sie, vom Feuer. Ist auch gut so, denkt sie sich, dann kann ich nicht immer nur auf seine Lippen starren.
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Was willst du denn hier machen?
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Sie zögert. Sie wusste, dass es dazu kommen würde. Aber manchmal, da muss man die Arschbacken eben ganz doll zusammenkneifen.
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Ok. Ich will dir einen Kuss geben.
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Ich muss das einfach machen.
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So, oder so ähnlich, male ich mir das aus. So ist die Realität doch, oder? ODER.oder.UND.und. So viele Dinge, die man machen will, doch aber nicht kann. Warum? Weil ich veststecke in der Kapsel meiner Entscheidungen. Die, die gefallen wurden, die, die fallen und die, die fallen werden, vielleicht zumindest. Sich sehnend nah dem Rausch der legalen Drogen. Ist küssen auch eine Droge? Ich sollte da mal ein Kartell eröffnen. Dann werde ich Milliardär. Und ich kaufe mich im Anti-Herpes-Salben-Geschäft ein, dann wird der Profit noch besser. Naja, egal. Der Typ, dem das gewidmet, ist es BESTIMMT eh nicht wert...
"We yearn to escape the demons of our subjectivity. We yearn to escape our selves, into intimacy. We yearn to sense that we are in absolute touch with things; and we are, of course.
There is in all of us an ache to care for the world. So why do we seem to have such trouble connecting to one another in even the most simple-minded, hand-holding ways? We don't seem able to understand what is generosity and what is selfishness, and in consequence we educate ourselves into two-hearted confusion as we try to define our responsibilities.
We want to know: where are we, and why were we ever born? We want to understand why we need to understand. Something is wrong, part of us is missing, we know it. Do we just dissolve, like light in the evening sky?
We are very frightened: we are driven to the unending and utterly impossible task of trying to heal ourselves back into whatever it is we understand as holy. We dream of childhood, sex and music and the beauty we can see. We find religion.
People go walking into nature. They say they feel they are becoming part of things. They say they want to be like a stone, or a flower; they say such release from the self is bliss, a kind of religious ecstasy, and they want it over and over.
But you have to wonder. Philosophers argue that we cannot be aware of ourselves without language. They say we are created by our language, that we live immersed in language and cannot escape; they say language stands as a scrim between us and what we think of as "real", and that we have to name things before we can know them. As a result we can never know what is "actual". All we know is names and stories.
Those are the argumenst. Maybe the people who go for walks are not connecting with anything at all, and find their joy simply by slipping out of the world for a while and refusing to participate. Perhaps that's all I'm looking for as I seek to reinhabit the child I imagine as myself: a way out like a drug.
I hope not. What I am looking for, at least so I tell myself, is a set of stories to inhabit, all I can know, a place to care about."
There is in all of us an ache to care for the world. So why do we seem to have such trouble connecting to one another in even the most simple-minded, hand-holding ways? We don't seem able to understand what is generosity and what is selfishness, and in consequence we educate ourselves into two-hearted confusion as we try to define our responsibilities.
We want to know: where are we, and why were we ever born? We want to understand why we need to understand. Something is wrong, part of us is missing, we know it. Do we just dissolve, like light in the evening sky?
We are very frightened: we are driven to the unending and utterly impossible task of trying to heal ourselves back into whatever it is we understand as holy. We dream of childhood, sex and music and the beauty we can see. We find religion.
People go walking into nature. They say they feel they are becoming part of things. They say they want to be like a stone, or a flower; they say such release from the self is bliss, a kind of religious ecstasy, and they want it over and over.
But you have to wonder. Philosophers argue that we cannot be aware of ourselves without language. They say we are created by our language, that we live immersed in language and cannot escape; they say language stands as a scrim between us and what we think of as "real", and that we have to name things before we can know them. As a result we can never know what is "actual". All we know is names and stories.
Those are the argumenst. Maybe the people who go for walks are not connecting with anything at all, and find their joy simply by slipping out of the world for a while and refusing to participate. Perhaps that's all I'm looking for as I seek to reinhabit the child I imagine as myself: a way out like a drug.
I hope not. What I am looking for, at least so I tell myself, is a set of stories to inhabit, all I can know, a place to care about."
william kittredge - hole in the sky
DROGEN!! Spaß. Ja küssen ist auch eine Droge. Bin auf Entzug und weiß nicht, wie ich den Partytiger vom Feuer weglocke. Bekanntermaßen haben wilde Tiere ja Angst vor Feuer.
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♥ ich liebe dich für immer und ewig