It always starts with the ears | Part by Part | It takes sense by sense.
It starts by a numb auditory | Sense followed by the sight.
It takes my worlds | tone and color perception
Of me.
It shuts me down
catches the nerves | in their open | Striving attempt to find
Sensory impressions and clarity.
It plays them brutally | Like bare fingernails playing
the strings of a violin.
My veins become thick | Of pain | In this state | They appear
blue.
Being blue | Being numb
Is this me getting dipped in blue? And am I now drowning?
Where does blue even begin and what does it become at its other end?
But why bother with diagnoses at all, if a diagnoses is but a restatement of the problem.
Is Ambivalence more beautiful than justice?
(My) Blue is vulnerable but strong. Due to its shades, its multiple faces. Its depth. It is strong because of its vulnerability.
May well be that blue is my inability. Or the complete opposite.
Sometimes, my blue cause complexity that I feel well in.
My friend tells me one should stop listening to blues when feeling blue. One should not bath in its own emotional brew.
Eva Illouz believes that consuming your emotions is only another matter of neo capitalism.
When would ever be the moment to listen to my tones of blue then?
How is there no joy in blues and still this pleasant feeling of being in my own nutshell?
In a nutshell it comes in waves, it stays in waves, it goes in waves.
In a nutshell, I am yearning for being lonesome without being lonely.
In a nutshell, you are the only one taking this feeling from me.
The crisp winter air. Such a relief.
The cold hits my face. It freezes my veins.
Stay still. Please, for once.
Apparently we got used to tiredness and exhaustion. To these little, blue puddles rinsing under our eyes, stating more we are ready to take.
Tears can not be the only way to carry away those mountains.
Climbing cliffs is for the sake of it.
A spoken word is a spoken word stays a spoken word.
A ripple is a wave
Nothing
You know
You think
You know me
Nothing
Nothing
I owe you
Nothing
I think
You owe me
Nothing.
Language stays pure | pretending.
I watch the last summer growing out of my toe nails. Steady and persistent it leaves. Taking so much memory from me.
You accuse me
To play victim
When truly
You aren’t given more
Vocabulary than the simple
gambling of black and white
Winning and losing
Victims and perpetrators.
Sorrow thought. Soar wounds.
Mind in trouble. Head spins double.
What is that dark silence overcoming me?
What’s that pain knocking me off. What’s that regret drilling, thrilling and tempting me?
I want to throw up, want to tear it apart, want to finally let go.
So loud. And so quiet. And so clear and so diffuse. And so loud. It is so loud.
*Ausschnitt der Arbeit „Bluets“.
Der Titel ist eine Anlehnung an die Anekdoten-Sammlung Bluets von Maggie Nelson. Ihre eigenwillige Mischung aus Essay, Autobiografie, philosophischer Reflexion und lyrischer Miniaturerzählung legte den Grundstein dieser Zeilen.