You died and it’s almost too late to say anything about it. I caught it on my fingertips, right before it slipped out of my hand and into the great nothingness. After you passed away, I heard no one calling out in the streets for you, no grievous whispering mourned for your loss and sang your name. It’d be my turn to say something, or so I figured.
I was drawn to you, that’s as much as I can say. I guess, part of me must have loved you, even though I never knew anything about this most obscure bond, lingering between our souls like a ribbon of dust in the desert. There is this one song, and maybe I only felt for you because of that. You found the words and still resided in silence. Someone else sang and touched my innermost.
But it was long ago and it was far awayOh God it seems so very farAnd if life is just a highway - then the soul is just a car
It could have been anywhere, you know. We could have been somewhere else, born into different places or worst of all, not born at all. Left dispersed between eventuality and an unoccupied womb. Words no one ever spoke. And I wonder, if you still would have found the exact same words with perhaps only one tiny link in the chain alternated and not quite what it should have been to form this indistinctive you. I never manage to stay in a calm, to keep my cool when I hear the words. Maybe that is, because almost any time I turn it on I am drunk somehow. And that’s always the point when I feel that I haven’t lived enough, that life itself has been too good to me and too less of a burden.
And when the sun descended and the night aroseI heard my father cursing everyone he knowsHe was dangerous and drunk and defeated,And corroded by failure and envy and hateThere were endless winters and the dreams would freezeNo where to hide and no leaves on the treesAnd my father's eyes were blank as he hit me again and again and againI know I still believe he'd never let me leave, I had to run away aloneSo many threats and fears - so many wasted years before my life became my own
I realised I had to write myself a thousand lives, one worse than the other, to reach my fullest potential. I must be torn apart, loose a million people, drown in waves of despair and alcohol, leave the woman who loves me. Beat, and get beaten alike. There is no salvation in a quiet life. I know that for a fact now. I must go through the motions of writing these lives and come out a man who is able to write. Thanks for your words Jim.
© Wolfgang Fortmüller 2021-09-04