No strategy. No plans. Laying in bed, sad, until chance rings me up.

At the end of something, you like to think of the beginning. Probably one hopes that if they believe firmly enough in it, holds their thumbs until they break, then one could go back, do everything differently and use the gained knowledge to adapt things more to one’s own idea of a bright future. That may have been my heaviest cross to carry. I remembered that I couldn’t have done it differently and as of today I am still nothing more than a sum of individual moments that repeated themselves randomly over the years to bury the memory of the special under the mass of the trivial. In this soup, nothing rested for eternity. Buckles formed, broke open and the most harmless wound could cost me in return my arm, leg or life. If it is not the ignorant, then the sick and the unhealthy are the only ones that cry. I was the sum of a whole and even the deepest memory, hidden in the twists and turns of my brain, just waiting to crawl out in the deciding moment to give me certainty that I could never have been anything else. And I was tied to myself, I couldn’t get rid of myself. That’s why I didn’t even try it. I preferred to stretch out on my bed with a cigarette in my left hand and a bottle in my right. I didn’t want to go out there anymore. I wanted to go down here. Waste away. Let my flesh become one with the sheets. I was waiting for something that might come, and when you talked about this perhaps, you were talking about tons of other perhaps that further required the planets to move in line, God to rise from his grave for a last miracle or Gandhi to win a cake eating contest against Texan fat bags. So, I drank because I wanted to drink. Waiting was just the last chance I ever gave life to meet me halfway. Because it made me sick that she didn’t think of me and no matter how much I persuaded myself that I would get over it and that it wouldn’t break my heart, I still had two halves in my hand and sat here. I thought about her again.

I can’t go on
I just want to be with you.
Breath the air that passes through your lungs
Collect the dust that falls off your skin.
Let me stand next to you, I don’t wish for more.

I wrote it down and then I wondered why I bothered. They were words that clung; that was greater than what I could do; that was less than what they wanted to be. The lines weren’t meant to be read.
What she wanted was clear now and what I wanted, I knew that too, several billion people, and I picked the one who didn’t want me. Does that speak against me, or does that speak for her?
I went into a coma and when I woke up four hours later, at 1 pm, with a pad as back support and upright in bed, my skull shook like my new mobile phone. Slightly damped, but still noticeable.
You’d think you’d train suffering through a hangover by drinking. I didn’t drink enough water for that and enjoyed the hangover too much. Kind of nice to have a real reason not to get up. The fact that I felt uncomfortable lying down, that the bending of the individual toes was already too much and that nausea never ended, no matter if my stomach was empty or not, made the scales lean further towards suicide. It was nice that I could hardly lift my bedspread in my condition. It is difficult to let yourself end if you already succumb to a circulatory collapse when lifting a blanket.
Then I noticed my neck pain for the first time as I hurriedly looked for my phone. I found it. And again, I thought for a moment it was her. A helpless fool was born of me. Right under my leg. The fact that I did not feel the vibration immediately worried me at first, but only briefly. I reassured myself that I was not sure if I had switched the function to full vibration when I put the device into operation.
I answered. It was Ätz. I had already seen it on the display. Who else would I have thought of?
“Hey, Ätz. Long time not heard”
“Hey Nat, can we meet up?”
“I don’t know. You sound dissolved. What’s the matter?”
“My mother…she is dead”

1500x500_bg_white< Previous Chapter: The 8 on my arm turned in my head. Chapter of despair.
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