I own an old hat box, which I very rarely open, a can of worms so to speak, their Inhalt similarly seems to me like a drop of fine vodka on a dry alcoholic. Glue on the cover edges of the wine and the former white of carton now resembles the stained walls of a chain smoker apartment. Maybe it’s because so many cigarettes to the dogs have gone about this small car. And even more Pinot Grigio von Rossmann. Handwritten love letters napping in it, also a short final Mach note, memories, much garbage such as concert tickets, a ring, selbstgedreht from a beer bottle aluminium paper and photos. Most show people in togetherness, of which I am one. The hat box is the last resting place of my youthful Verliebtheiten. A chronicle of failed preservation attempts something, the one “forever “is called. Of course, never worked. To repent, there is still nothing, and that’s the problem.
That most of my friends are pretty glad if one of their ex-boyfriends to leave the country, the further the goal, the better. One of the especially traumatised’s once finished brought, seven minutes at our table to search for imaginary contact lenses just because Jonas, “astray”, suddenly at the other end of the restaurant showed up. Another finds her taste in men was long constant years become worse at the thought of lost, you’ll also sometimes very hot before disgust. I wave, however, usually as one of this China cats as soon as one of the Knights of my past on the way. Good luck in disguise, blessing and curse at the same time, but above all one: irritating. Because you can while letting go, but not forget.
My first love is until today a smart, beautiful and charming, a quite jackpot, just not my. We sincerely glad if we us see, send photos of children through the mobile network regularly and proud and wondering what drives the family so, a bit like siblings do. The next was a Haddad with great talent for socially critical art, followed by a theatre-loving Jack-of-all-trades who builds one that liked the mountains rather than me, a musician who knows the whole world, the most beautiful furniture, but prefers living in Italy, then a few a few hot man iron, Turteleien, of which each of them had their special charm. Was not a single misstep, the grounds for separation shall apply until today all of them as a relative adult, even if not only a heart was bleeding quite heavily, even mine. I like men anyway, always really had and the best long Fortunately at my side. But exactly who has a sometimes hard. Because my personal bar is now higher than the Eiffel Tower. Because no man can be anything. And because you want that in weak moments, what would result in daily life quite possibly a bunch of rage from a crashed dish. Nostalgia is therefore one of the debilitating, stupid inventions of human emotions. It is no secret that one tends to romanticize the past and yet the cheeks are sometimes red, if one writes out of the hat box.
The overwhelming this plight has not anything to do with raw feelings, so that I would want a person that goes their separate ways long, no not back. If something doesn’t work, then reasons; by warming up, I consider something if at all only in the case of a, big love. What makes me madder than hell in truth, are all the moments that never come. Not the relationships on themselves, but the memories that hang on every individual with it. The stages of life, the people, homes and habits. The “pretty vacant “in Düsseldorf, the WG 5, guitar banter in the bedroom, that do not know when the weekend to stop, pay no taxes, that just get together in bed remain, because the University can wait, the “all make today blue “sense. And perhaps also the own self of yesteryear, the girl who had more time to record search as a work, that did not know who the editor in Chief of VOGUE, but is the last emperor of Abyssinia. I’d again sometimes really all that. And like a man, playing thirty instruments and theatre, free spirit and still mordsmäßig succeeds, the ten languages are spoken, the world tours and is still always there. All the EXEs in one person more or less. Just I forget occasional sailing between long-lost waves like the fire jellyfish beneath the surface, then, I curb that I would end up in the face of such mutants probably already after two days like Silvia Plath namely with his head in the oven.
It is no great achievement, pink to see everything in the retrospective and thinking of the happiness of the time in tears of sorrow to drown, because it will not quite work just with the exciting life. The art is however to accept that everything has its time and that none can be ever better than the here and now – we need to just make sure. So that a normal Hat box is finally out of the Pandora’s box, a yellowing box packed with harmless latent memories of a time that was not beautiful, but a little different.