You

This text is from the 6th of July 2014. It was a draft on my E-mail. I decided not to change anything on it and post it the way it was originally written, even though some things might have been a bit over the top. 

"Sind wir wirklich mutig genug gewesen?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYCOg-yglNM

(Pause)

It’s 6:13 AM.

I want to write you so much,

(Do I take the blame for everything that happened?, Am I the bad guy the went away for no reason?, Is this how you justify it to yourself before you go to bed every night?, Is this how you boost your ego?)

I don’t want to write down 

Now it’s already 6:29 AM.

I know I need to go to bed. I need to go to sleep and forget you. Forget the problems we had. Forget the times you left me in the past. Forget the times we had to work things out.

Moritz. I don’t think I have ever loved another person so much in my life as much as I have loved you. You’re connected straight to my heart, you suck on my emotions and feelings.

I’m tired of coming back to you. I’m tired of calling you. I’m tired of trying. I’m tired of keeping the hope alive. The hope that we will change and “us” can work.

You know, you know it so well, how you went away from us twice in the past. You know how I called first both of the times, telling you I LOVE YOU, I want you back. Giving a chance to us. Giving a chance to you to see what you’ve had lost. Giving a chance to me to appreciate you more.

I felt so many times that you never really liked me. Up until recently, up until some months before our break up, I couldn’t feel honesty coming from you.

I tried for more than a year. I tried so long before I went away. 

That last year, you know you were emotionally fucked up. Right after Christmas. And until the summer.

I wanted to go away for so long. But I kept trying. Trying for us. You & me, together.

I wanted to go away right before the summer. But I didn’t. I gave us a shot. I gave us my land, the gift of my world. I gave you a chance to see better who I am. To understand how I grew up.

I was brave for us. You were brave for us, coming home to my folks.

I can’t believe it’s already been a year since we were making plans to go to Greece. I can’t believe, I’m still writing to you. I can’t believe I loved you so much, that you left such a big scar on my soul.

How did I love you so much? Why did I love you so much? Why do I feel that I need to help you?

You don’t need help. You don’t need to go into your forest. You actually don’t have a forest. That is my story. That was my imagination. That is my way of coping with things. That was how I tried to show you, a way to approach your problems. But thats not yours. Nothing is yours. Not even me. Not even my feelings. Nothing will ever be yours, you can’t have a part of my soul. Even if I come back to you a thousand times, most of them were out of pity. Or insecurity. But not love. Not majestic love. CAUSE YOU NEVER LOVED ME MORE THAN YOURSELF. YOU WERE ALWAYS MORE IMPORTANT TO YOU. YOU COULDN’T SEE PAST YOUR EGO.

I should had left you the first time, when you ditched me for your Masterarbeit. ;) I would have saved us so much drama, and myself two years of mediocre sex."

Thanks for reading!

I wanted to write a post,
thankful to all the people,
that took the time to read the blog,
throughout these 8 years. :)
in good and bad,
writing has never failed me,
and since I normally dont have a place for thoughts,
(I wouldnt really trust a notebook)
this has been my place,
my peace of mind,
a really good friend.

Thank you!

Water can: you

People grow;
people mature;
people learn from the past;

but we don't.

And you'll tell me this story is old,

these things have been told already,

life is nice now.

Life is what you want it to be .
Life is what you make out of it .
Life is about your courage, is about your strength.
Its all about your balls.

The violence, the emotional violence,
the pain that staggers,
it's there to remind you,

as you grow,
and mature,
and learn from the past,
that it will always be on the notepad of your thoughts,
printed as a watermark.

It's in the whispers of your childhood,
in your favourite toy,
in the few memories,

it was printed out with your very own tears.
Always there to remind you.

Family portrait,
inexistent life,
Death as you can imagine it,
different ways, different days,
life is unexpected,
your brain freezes,
and unlocks.


Painful days,
memories of the past,
things you can't let go of,
screaming,


All this, all this love,
could be easily resolved,
if your rapist comes and says,

this is love and now I understand.

But he doesn't and probably never will.
She won't even think about it.
She shouldn't think that far.
He's not programmed this way.
Only in a way that says,
Love is food or toys,
Love is what I give to your hands,
Love is what I could give you, nothing more,
Love is not thinking about you,
Love is thinking about me,
and myself
and me
and me.
Not you.

You; the one in need,
you the one in need of nurture,
and love,
and understanding,
and focus,
and acceptance,
and all these things that make you human.
And not a toy.
Not a dog.
Not a spiderman figure.
Not the greatest grades in school.
Not food.
Nothing.

But a yes.
Yes.
Be, what you have to be.
And yes Im gonna love you.
For what it takes and gives,
in sickness and health,
in good and bad,
in trial and error,
in normal and abnormal,
in pain and in pleasure.

Dear Dad,

Your face doesn't exist in my family portrait,
Not as family,
maybe as something else,
but not as dad.
There is no version of your love,
There is no version of your care,
There is nothing,
You gave a big, fat nothing,
I realise it, the more I talk to you,
Inadequate,
Same old you, same old (now) me,

You planted a flower,
and never watered it.
You planted a seed,
and never nurtured it,
You planted a life,
and never too care of it.

You are not the owner of this plant,
The owner of this plant is the soil,
the rain,
the people passing by that watered here and there,
its about me,
dry leaves,
fungus,
and I still blossomed,
blossomed so nice that people passed by,
and found me,
and saw me,
and took me from your soil and put me else,
where I could be myself,
and make flowers,
You never liked flowers, dad.
They were too gay for you.
Well guess what, I'm gay.
My flowers are fucking gay.
And because of my malnutrition,
Ill always be weaker,
Unless I give a lot,
unless I give my whole strength,
to blossom,
to survive,
to live.

Rain. I don't need your water.
I can't drink your water,
I can't drink your poison.
I have grown without it.
Wouldn't do it now.

One day I'm gonna say: I love my job
One day I'm gonna say: I love my face

One day I'm gonna say: I love my sad

Distracted

Will I ever make my dreams come true?

What are they?
When are they ours?
When are they borrowed?

How is life in its simplest form?

How can you convince a complicated mind to think in a simple way?

Why don't I ever like my hair? Or my glasses?

How is life post-this -my shoes are never comfortable- thing?
Great?
Boring?

How about me checking out your brown bumm?

How about you getting decent education?

How about me hating my job?

And my habits? And my laziness?

When am I happy with myself?