Benitatxell (España)
Will the sea remain in me? Or the rough rocks? Or a clear memory of it? The sound of the sea, like last night? I no longer know whether I can rely on my memory, it is never as clear as the moment itself. And this is always just a hint, a fleeting experience at best.
We use the weekends to go out into nature. It's very close, just a few steps out of the house, down a hill. Then over craggy rocks and sharp stones, always approaching the sound of the waves, to the sea. From there, I continue along the path that winds through the rocky landscape.
I enjoy it and yet am sobered by the civilization that is just a hop, skip and a jump away. A place of ghosts, of abandoned but spruced-up villas. Clean on the outside, empty on the inside. We would get lost here if we were to slip and fall on one of the countless narrow paths on one of the many overly smooth stones. We would be lost even if we slip in our home.
Nobody knows where we are. No one nearby who could see us disappear. No one who knows when we leave the house and where we are going. This is pure freedom on one side and independence. But it also contains loneliness, which I only feel in the few moments when I have nothing to do.
I only share my joy and happiness on these paths with her. This entire journey is one just for us. There doesn't seem to be anyone in this world who wants even a piece of our experiences, or even the stories about them. Everyone is busy with themselves. And this place is the best manifestation of this kind of society.
My memory slips back to the evening in the bistro with the people from my youth. Much is only a blur in my memory. A fleeting moment in the endless stream of time. A look back at familiar faces that have grown old, whose mouths still speak the old stories. They didn't change. Neither did I, I assume.
Even though I was the one who brought everyone to the table, I wasn't the one who was the center of interest. Although I lead this unusual life that is so different from anything the people who were there know, they were only interested in their lives and what they know, what they are dealing with and where they want.
Somewhere, everyone is a prisoner of themselves.
There is no pain in disappointment. Maybe I knew what would happen and that's why I'm not too deeply hurt. I'm sure I knew it. And yet there was also a part of me that longed for a different reaction. And still is. A part that wanted to be seen and noticed, even admired. The sting of not being seen enough is still present.
Here, under the warm southern sun, I don't feel the sting that much. I am too busy enjoying every moment, working and imagining a life that could be. That could be built on this, nurtured by this and created by me.
Originally written in German. Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
Will the sea remain in me? Or the rough rocks? Or a clear memory of it? The sound of the sea, like last night? I no longer know whether I can rely on my memory, it is never as clear as the moment itself. And this is always just a hint, a fleeting experience at best.
We use the weekends to go out into nature. It's very close, just a few steps out of the house, down a hill. Then over craggy rocks and sharp stones, always approaching the sound of the waves, to the sea. From there, I continue along the path that winds through the rocky landscape.
I enjoy it and yet am sobered by the civilization that is just a hop, skip and a jump away. A place of ghosts, of abandoned but spruced-up villas. Clean on the outside, empty on the inside. We would get lost here if we were to slip and fall on one of the countless narrow paths on one of the many overly smooth stones. We would be lost even if we slip in our home.
Nobody knows where we are. No one nearby who could see us disappear. No one who knows when we leave the house and where we are going. This is pure freedom on one side and independence. But it also contains loneliness, which I only feel in the few moments when I have nothing to do.
I only share my joy and happiness on these paths with her. This entire journey is one just for us. There doesn't seem to be anyone in this world who wants even a piece of our experiences, or even the stories about them. Everyone is busy with themselves. And this place is the best manifestation of this kind of society.
My memory slips back to the evening in the bistro with the people from my youth. Much is only a blur in my memory. A fleeting moment in the endless stream of time. A look back at familiar faces that have grown old, whose mouths still speak the old stories. They didn't change. Neither did I, I assume.
Even though I was the one who brought everyone to the table, I wasn't the one who was the center of interest. Although I lead this unusual life that is so different from anything the people who were there know, they were only interested in their lives and what they know, what they are dealing with and where they want.
Somewhere, everyone is a prisoner of themselves.
There is no pain in disappointment. Maybe I knew what would happen and that's why I'm not too deeply hurt. I'm sure I knew it. And yet there was also a part of me that longed for a different reaction. And still is. A part that wanted to be seen and noticed, even admired. The sting of not being seen enough is still present.
Here, under the warm southern sun, I don't feel the sting that much. I am too busy enjoying every moment, working and imagining a life that could be. That could be built on this, nurtured by this and created by me.
Originally written in German. Translated with DeepL.com (free version)