Recounting the Sheep

Almost a year since the first and only post on this – seemingly - futile attempt in the traditional meaning of the word – writing.

Just how much is a year? What does it really represent, if anything?

I don’t know. I think I used to know, once. I used to have such a sound and prompt answer for anything that came to mind.

I’ve lost track of time.

Lose an hour, gain an hour. Time goes by in a swift, sweet motion of pictures and sounds and scents. One second at a time, never failing to defy purpose. Like a muted television on Disovery Channel at 3am, the extraordinary fades to oblivion, speechless, as the different tides of existance rams down a small boat which desperately – and in denial – struggles to be.

So many words remain silent. So many thoughts and dreams wither and die. The past nothing but a fractal recollection of jaded scents, faded pictures and a glossy, blooming old sequence of images which one can’t ever be sure if really took place.

“Sometimes you can see the world so clearly.

And you just know what to do.

And just when you should do it.

What you should have done.

And just when you should have done it.”

Still and all, there’s such a delicate intimacy and fondness to the otherwise despicable sequence of events that take place in such a funny angle.

In the eternal struggle, this longing and winding thing, nothing is short of sense of humor. You find friends you wouldn’t have found anywhere else. You see, each one of us leave a noticeable fingerprint on the things we create.

And yet, I still can’t think of anything useful to say.

A Paradigm Shift

The next few days fly by in a blur as I hopelessly try to keep up with the overwhelming – albeit refreshing – change of pace. Valentine’s Day greets me with a gritty smile, in an empty dim-lit room, and I’m not in the mood for smiling back.

Quite the unexpected punch, mind you.

I spend more time than I’d like to admit staring blankly at a night that fades away, smoking a pack, shuffling through all the random thoughts of the day, before deciding to make a call that greets me with voice mail.

Dating Mari was, in a lot of ways, like starting to smoke, except for the fact that smoking only fucks up your lungs. Now, not dating Mari was like an itch that I couldn’t scratch, tearing apart something I couldn’t really put my finger on, in such a bizarre fashion I couldn’t help but somehow feel amused by it. And then consider proceeding to kill myself as quickly as possible.

Another call greets me with voice mail. And then some. An impossible amount of time wasted in bed and I can’t quite recall what was bothering me for starters. But a quote still kept hammering inside – go out with your friends. If I were you, I wouldn’t think twice.

So once more into the breach, profession gives me a call and I say ‘ello, mate.

Oh, dear. Do something utterly useless before such memorable day go by in a memorable blank of existance. I drop by at Duda’s and we go out for a few drinks at Berlin. The pub is swarming with romantic couples – most of them quite obviously not belonging to a pub – and two different barmans do the silly joke about we being a gay couple. Good on ya, mate. We have some brew, talk a lot of nonsense and kick it.

And that’s pretty much it.