when your mom wraps you up in a cozy warm blanket, puts the warmest wool hat on your little stupid head and dad takes you on a sleigh ride. It’s dark, it’s freezing, it’s only 7pm right before dinner and you’re going on a snow adventure. your nose is red and cold, interesting, you always thought red goes with hot. your breathing stops for a second looking at the bluest snow ever and it sparkles everywhere. it sparkles and it squeezes under the sleigh, under your tiny stupid little feet. you’ll never forget the snow. You were born on a Monday. Was it snowing? You don’t remember, you’ll never remember.
but what about that feeling you have when it suddenly hits you: giving so much love away, spreading love all around, emptying yourself and still feeling useless afterwords. when you realise you need that love back. giving it to the world but reaching for a balance somehow, somewhere. craving for mad love, basically for your love – of yourself – back. searching for it in others. The Other. the Almighty Other. Feeling ashamed for this craving but knowing you are entitled to it.
That’s the problem, see, whenever I try to write something about it, my mind suddenly empties. Flashbacks of words and dashes and points – a certain rhythm inside me but still like a rock on the outside. Is language a problem? Does it stop the going with the flow? or is it too much going with the flow already? so much that it’s all transformed into cosmic energy and it doesn’t belong to me any more. I don’t belong to myself any more.