the secret diary of somebody else
A text-battle between Aino el Solh and Sabrina Basten
The rules for the battle are:
1. randomly picking a word for the month: Aino blindly moves her finger through a text and Sabrina says 'stop'
2. published on the 15th of each month
3. the text includes an image
Many people are doing it. What we call in finish writing into the table drawer (kirjoittaa pöytälaatikkoon). I'm doing it. Except that I write into my computer.
What I like about writing is when I don't see anything in front of me and I start writing and so many things appear.
I passed my driving test early, so that at parties I would often be sober. Sometimes I sat alone, armed with a pen and paper, observing. Dressed up people, drunk people, sleeping people, kissing people, acting people "Why are you sitting here writing?"
Why? Because no one else could look quickly enough to see what just happened.
Publishing date 15.02.2017
(Walter Benjamin - Berliner Kindheit um neunzehnhundert)
I counted ten more waves, breathing in and out in their tempo. Then I stood up, shook the sand away from my clothes and walked across the beach. I sat down on a sunny table and he came to me almost immediately. I took a quick breath, and used the air to push the words out of my mouth before my mind would interfere and stop me from saying it.

He looked at me silently for a while and his gaze, calmed me down. Completely.

Then: ‘ A coffee? `

‘ Yes please. A black one, I like the taste of coffee.’

It seemed like I didn’t care of how much fiction there was in his life, as I ignored the fact that he ignored my question. But it turned out I had chosen my words well, because all while sitting there and making up my mind about if I was going to read the newspaper or a book, he came back bringing me the coffee and a piece
of cake. He was smiling.

- I remember you. You’ve been here a few times.

- Yes. I like to watch the waves when I’m sad.

He squinted his eyes a little, and said I didn’t look sad. I asked him how I looked.

- You look like you’re looking for something. Are you?

- Maybe. It’s possible. Actually it’s even likely as I keep returning here. I don’t know anyone in this area, but I get the feeling sometimes that I have to be here, and then I take the bus and come, even if it’s far away.

- When were you here for the first time? And did something happen then?

- I came here for the first time by accident. I was going to buy something from a private person, and I was looking for his house here. But it was the wrong place. There are two streets in the city with the same name.

Suddenly he turned his head over his left shoulder to look behind him, and I saw a big parrot flying towards us. It landed on his shoulder grabbing the flesh with its small feet and pressed its nails in to the white cotton of his t-shirt. He was not amazed like me, but took the tray and went to clean the tables while whistling a joyful melody. The parrot started singing along with its raspy voice.

The song was about a sailor who fell into the sea. He tried to fight the waves but went under the water where he found out he could breathe. He fell down, down under the great ocean, and while going down he travelled in time. His body kept transforming along the way, and once he reached the sea bottom he was wearing a crown and his clothes were made of velvet and gold. He landed right in front of a chrystal castle. He remembered that he was the king of that castle and he went in and started ruling again, as he had done in his past lifetime.

The parrot could not only sing the whole song, but the way he pronounced each word sounded aristocratic. I looked at it again and let my eyes lay on its colourful feathers that were shimmering in the light. He was a dandy much more than a bird. I could tell it from his posh accent and from the way he looked at me as I stared at him. He was very pleased of having stolen the show.
It is not that Noema and Noesis are bored.
Plenty of things that have happened and
even more people that have experienced them.
Whilst a soft voice in the radio was singing 'If I didn't care more then words can say…'
My friend told me that she decided to stop producing artefacts, to stop helping new things in to this world. What are the odds? The odds are long.
(Karel Capek - The War with the Newts)
publishing date 15.09.2017
(Ivo Sachs - Schimpansen am Abgrund)
Publishing date 15.03.2017

'I could have flown to New York with what I spend on changing the flight dates',
said Julie on the phone, chit-chatting about the days to come and then hung up.
Yes, it might have been more romantic indeed, but nothing is for certain anyways.
This time she was gone for a month, she couldn't wait to get back, some months just feel lengthy.

She sits back continuing her writing while billboards pass by, trying hard to win back her attention.
The story in her notebook, written with that smooth pencil, starts with: 'Sam never really felt a shine for these huge clean vast spaces. And he has been to so many...'
Julie was convinced, what ever the title would be, the tail had to be about that moment that was real, still queerly sounding like a movie.
What else is there to say, her imagination is inseparably connected to her own inner colourful church window, leading to a trail covered with boxes and bags. Damn that guy stayed in her head, to make it evaporate only a flight above the clouds is the best course of action.
To name but a few intimacies.
No time to take a rest, but instead being forced to recognize the changes during her absence, after she steps off the train.

New white graffiti covering the entire front door, that just failed the key hole, if you look close
new barrister at the corner cafe, not knowing that she does not take a lid on her cup
new monumental painting, on the wall of a house, on the way to the studio, pretending not to be a house, but a staircase
old trees that got their branches trimmed, even a person witnessing them for the first time, would notice
the scaffolding wrapped around the house on the other side of the street, that looked totally fine, but seems in need of something different
new benches at the pétanque courts, made of yellow wood, shining in the sun, tomorrow it will rain again.

'Imagine I would leave for a year, to work full-time in another country….'

Somehow I ended up wondering in my own thoughts for a while. The melody had evoked some memories, and I was going through them with a smile on my face, gazing into the memory space of my mind. When I woke up from daydreaming, I noticed that the sun was already quite high, and that the sea had changed colour. I also realised that I didn’t remember anymore, what the song I had just heard, had been about.

I had held my hands under the table for the whole time I was sitting there. It was safer like that. It had become more and more difficult to control the attacks lately, and I knew that if anyone saw my hands shaking, they would concentrate on that. Any attention given to my body’s dysfunction would increase the dysfunction, so it was essential not to let it happen in the first place. If it would happen anyway, I would have to get out of it right away.

‘Constantly and consecutively refocus outside of your inner black hole’. That was the advice that my guide had given me. The one for whom I had came into this area for the first time. I had come for his advice then, and the times I came back here, were to remember. ‘Constantly and consecutively refocus outside of your inner black hole. Stop feeding it NOW. Separate from it. Get out of the zone. NOW. I was repeating it as a whisper, and took long breaths. Meanwhile other tables got occupied. I was not alone anymore.

My master could heal from a distance. If he wanted, he could just ask and I would be never again stuck in the zone. He did not do it.
He believed in practice and he told me that I should learn the process myself. I thought so too, but on my worst moments I hated him and the world, out of which I was born.

The elegantly dressed lady, who was wearing a black twenties hat with a feather of a parrot squirting out of it sat on the table close to the stairs going down to the beach. She held a dry Martini on her hand. She looked decisive as she started slowly moving the glass towards her lips for the first sip. I saw that her hands were shaking badly, and I turned my head very quickly to look away.
Only now I noticed that behind me was a mountain, calm as the bottom of the sea.

I took a pen to write down my second note, which I was to leave on the table when I would go: Thousand and one eyes looking at you.
The difficulty of separating real from unreal. How much fiction is in our society?
(Ed Yong - I contain multitudes)

While calming and focusing my mind with the 963 tone, I could feel how every cell of my body returned to its natural state and order.

The world was not going to be saved by physical action, but by a concentrated mental focus that would directly affect the vibrating realm.

I had been practicing the day before, and was shifting towards understanding of what the intentional directing of energy released during practice might mean. My newly risen thoughts of the sending and receiving principle had been challenged right in the same night in an unexpected encounter. A black Italian man behind the bar whose occupation was to serve us drinks, and whose eyes were blurred by cataract, had interfered our conversation in order to express his thought. He told us that a being has a right to exist without an intention or a purpose, and that according to the principle of radical individualism we all have a right to exist as we are, without serving the system or being observed or evaluated in relation to it.

It was trying to estimate the depth of his thought in relation to my own thought, and saw that his idea was beautiful. It made me see the reason why I had felt it was so important to practice the sending and receiving principle. I had considered it significant, because it seemed to give my being more purpose. I had thought I should practice it in order to be useful, but if this man was telling the truth then I did not have to become more useful as I was already serving my purpose fully only by existing.

An other man who was drinking a different drink had then commented out of the blue, that a shaman can travel to an other galaxy through the eyes of a person, but that the person has to be young, like a baby who’s head is still soft, as they are pre-adapted for that. Nobody believed him.

I went to clean my clothes from last nights smokes. I found something in my pocket that I didn’t recognise as my own. It was a hand written text on a piece of paper that was a page torn off a notebook.

There are two kinds of dreams of you.

In the joyful one we see each other, laugh, take each other by the hand and vanish.

The other dream has a different atmosphere and is, if not scary, at least serious. It always involves a building, which I think is there as a representation of your mind. In these dreams I have a less significant role, as I'm usually just a visitor among others. The buildings are different each time, but always majestic, built of stone or concrete and have extremely high ceilings. ‘
Publishing date 15.04.2017

The field seems endless, especially in the dark. Far away the flickering lights (oscillation of electricity) of that neighbourhood which is populated with juvenile burger places, not worthy of the exhausting hill-ride. So I got out of bed, as she advised me by texting 'get out!!' I can stay in bed for hours and hours, staring at the tree through the stained window, while my thoughts change so abrupt, it would be out of the question to write them down. The guilt often drops in unbearably.

I can hear my bike wheel scratching against the front fender while the only thing I can see is just a meter of a worn out white painted stripe in the middle of the old road, fading into the darkness, something like
a Lost Highway, being pulled smoothly after you let go. I am convinced there is no one else wandering through this vast dreamlike episode (12.2km2) and I hope they had not close the gate on the other side before I would reach it. Sure, you never know what will meet your sight, anything could turn out to be of inspiration, even a hermetically closed polyphrenic ejaculation of 90's pop. When I hear her say the line 'The community goes past me', I feel confirmed.

The grey and massive revolving door stays turning all night and I make my way out, passing the burger places, realizing that I can not play ping-pong with myself. Then again, finding someone's foreign language to translate, is hardly an approximation of what is and can be. Eventually my cloudy blanket is the sanctuary called 'night', no matter what.

Both sides were as rough and uneven-
broken, like a coastline in a Scandinavian city.
The edge of the surface saturated with black ink seemed intensely aware of its own importance, and was arrogantly penetrating its cranky line all around the white sheet of paper, which on its behalf was enjoying the freedom from any semiotic responsibility and delighted of not providing information what so ever.

'What do you see here?' he asked. Firmly, I suppose.

'I see the coastline of my native city on the left side of the page, and on a right side I see it mirrored because someone has decided to fold the paper while the ink was still wet. It was done on purpose.'

'That's right. Absolutely, it was done on purpose. As were thousands of other similar images. But listen carefully: That's not the point!

He waited politely, but eventually answered his own question.

'The point is, that this print serves as a channel to your underconciousness, and for reasons that are classified and I cannot reveal, I need an access. Let's just say that I'm looking for something or someone.

I remained silent as I had absolutely nothing to say. I was simply uninterested of his motives, or of what he had to do. I didn't take my eyes out of his eyes, where they were pointing, even if I was not seeing him.

So you couldn't care less, am I right?
he said and his face looked so unhappy that it was funny, and I had to smile inside. Finally he had evoked some emotion in me.

I knew that the print serving as access was bullshit. The print wasn't going to help him getting access. It was a ridiculous tool that he was forced to use because of lack of imagination of the interrogation team. We were going to lose a lot of time like this, so I quickly grabbed the paper, stuffed it in my mouth and swallowed it. It got stuck on the way, but I could not afford to care for that at the moment. I had to focus to come up with a strategy.

I had seen something else than the coastline, but he should never find that out.

I knew that he didn't really care of Reality. He was just doing his job, and I could tell that he was tired. I could read it from the horizontal lines of his body. The eyebrows, the mouth and the shoulders were all in a down curve, and revealed a deep inner disappointment. I knew I could win, because he would not keep up long enough unless I would get upset and thus energise him with anger. He was going to try that for sure, but I was not going to let it work out. His biggest weakness was that he didn't know, what exactly was he looking for.

'When did you see her last time?'

I kept silent but if he was really good in what he was doing he could notice that I slided in the middle of a memory.

The grass under our feet was so dark that could marely reflect green waves anymore and it made my shoes wet. She was standing on my feet to get her eyes closer to mine. I wanted to look into her soul and I could have then, because she was so wide open, but something held me back. I remember the humidity of the air that blurred all the lines of the black night in the countryside, and mixed the landscape into a large dark gradient. The night was yet going to be lit by the rising full moon, and we were going to crawl naked through the fields on and off each other, and howl to the moon.
I missed her so much that it hurt, but there was nothing to do about the fact that I had let her go, and that it was likely that we would never meet again. There was no access, and man in front of me had to understand that.
He pulled out a pile of drawings from his bag.

'Are you ready?' He asked, with a voice that imitated gentleness. 'I don't have any more time to waist.
Publishing date 15.05.2017
(Woody Allen - Getting Even)
publishing date 15.06.2017

The intensified alert state of the planet.
High stress levels being transmitted through the cosmic network.
It's not anymore only about the intoxicated life conditions of vulnerable species. Extension extends its arms towards humans too.
All anons will be wiped out
Tomorrow we'll pay for our lives.

The now is bigger than any previous or any becoming state
It's a continuum of expansion
The future is bigger only in theory
(in economic theory)

Be ready to buy your right to live and to reproduce.
Set up a value and stick to it,
the value will increase potentially by the generations.

Universe almighty of dark matter,
do you hear me?

Here we are,trapped in the firm embrace of mother earth and dealing with our mother issues. The relationship to the mother, with whom at the same time you seek closeness to and want to flee from. The dissonance of nurturing comfort and the expanding desire that cries out for space.

While the Internet is devouring our dreams, and gives nothing back,
egos are exploding in a firework of images and thoughts
expansion becomes explosion.

Space, universe almighty can you contain me? What is coming out of me?
im not a man so I have not known the expansion
it scares me.
I haven't gotten used to the growth
my body doesn't know what the explosion is I'm afraid of the unknown
I'm scared of becoming.

My body is built to receive and embrace
yet it tenses up and gets hard like the spear of a Masai soldier
tight like an arm that bends back to seek power from there where the eyes cannot look.
That's where god is.
I'm all tense, sharp and quick. High alert state, ready to fly like an arrow, I feel the focus and the speed carrying me.

I'm flying
the speed stabilizes me as I stream through the air.
Less of it could be fatal
I'm thin and I create less turbulence than others who suck in their stream many more of those who have no direction
I love to fly.
Even when Aristotle tells me to come down I won't.

I'm flying and only then I can melt.
I can become soft again.
I can hit the ground
wreck havoc or land smoothly.
From the ground I can rise to open up
to receive.
deceive not
even if it's just one letter away.

The time is getting longer each time.
I am not counting seconds anymore while holding breath under water.
I don't have to
I'm now breathing under water.
You don't see me from the surface but that doesn't mean I'm invisible.

Forget about the alert state, the fake state.
We'll just keep living.

One side is coated with orange paint, which is shielded by a flat white rectangular piece,
on this rectangular piece are two blobs, the green one seems to slide down a bit and the red one has a little hole,
on the other side of the big block (the one with that orange side) something deep black is growing upwards or dripping down, the third side has something red attached to it, that overcasts almost all of that side with a smaller black piece coming out from it, the forth side is encased with something seemingly organic, dripping in full quantity,
the top is pierced by two pipes, one is going straight up, coated in green white and black drippings, completed with a baby-blue smashed ball, the other pipe sticks out at forty-five degrees, piercing three red-brown objects that could be flowerpots, topped with one green-white object, all emerges from an oversized industrial bag, the entirety rests on a pallet.
Mitarbeiterin (Co-Worker)
publishing date 15.07.2017

The room had the shape of a rectangular, roughly the hight of an ordinary apartment. The stone walls seemed merely painted black or maybe a very sooty grey. Outside the night was trying hard to keep the room gloomy and obscure. Broken by eight generous windows, the walls fragmented that same opacity.
The entire floor was covered with lasting carpet, but the corners of the prism were impalpable. “confusion has always been at the heart of wisdom”, she remembers. The air was nebulous.
Nothing would hang on the walls, not one picture, no chair standing near the stairs, nor a wardrobe.
A tousled bed was standing near the left wall. They were alone and he offered her orange juice, while she stepped out of the bed. The mood was all quiet and stir, as faint as the light that evoked.
She was only wearing underpants and a soft white sleeveless shirt. He was studying her with all his capacity and with no interference. When the darkness was gently pushed aside by dawn, beams appearing like the effortless movement of silk underwater, she sat down on the floor with her back against the wall, facing him. The light rays shimmered on her body. She embraced her legs, pushing them effortlessly against her chest, feet on the ground, when he let himself surrender onto the bed,
but mumbling 'A geometric shape is the geometric information which remains when location, scale, orientation and reflection are removed from the description of a geometric object'.
(48h Neuköln newspaper)

An idea does not have to lead to immediate implementation even if it's a good one


Opening of the third eye gives a significant advantage in order to grasp relativity.
It allows a better understanding of distance and motion even from a freezed position


an international summit is organized in order to reflect on the theme if god is absolute or relative, and in order to collectively float up and down in the vibrating scale until commonly realised, internalised and agreed upon, what oneness is.

oneness is oneness.

cataract is something in the eye that
not everyone has, but it makes some eyes look more beautiful even if it impairs their vision.
It's an inversion tool that makes the eye to be looked at. It inverses the direction of the gaze towards the eye instead of from the eye.

Slight disturbances in the vision can help opening the third eye, because they question the vision. The opening of the third eye improves vision significantly, but one has to adapt to it, and in the initial phase it can come across as confusing and imparing the vision that is now something else than it used to be.

Television is mass media and is saturating billions of sights. The Eurovision is on the television so when its being watched, both are being watched and two visions unite on a parallel plane. If this thought is deep I'm unaware of it.


The new collegue was called Avian, and she was the fastest and best coder of the whole company. Almost everyone had played with the idea to hack her into a sexbot, but nobody would ever had dared to steal her from the company.

In order to emphasize her worth and the prestige of the company, her long nails were ordered in gold, and when her fine fingers were running on the keyboard it sounded like rain. That's how fast she was.

Once upon a time there was a young girl, stubborn as she was born, could climb up any tree,
she would sit only on one particular tree. That tree was standing in the backyard of a four floor house, cramped between bushes, fences and bricks, erecting towards the sky,
the only place left aside.
The girl, let's call her 'king', would wear her white and blue striped shorts with a pocket full of paraphernalia she calls Periotropes. These tools would enable her to react to any ascending phenomenon, capturing it, analysing it and storing it.
The tree fork was smoothen out by now and the ivy had no other option than to just grow out of the way until up the tree crown, where she would sit. Only when the piercing sun shines through the leaves at midday, casting shadows on each other, it would produced an extend of green that was divine. The bark evaporates the fine dust of yellow, saturating the sky like a swarm of bees. Her uncle told her that the tree is called Fever Tree (Vachellia xanthophloea), the Shamans would cook a brew with its bark to induce a lucid dream, to walk the 'white path'. “Before going to sleep a question is asked that will be answered in their dreams”.

While waiting in the tree for the sun to go down, she would routinely collect the fractions of the day using her defined Periotropes. She would paste the bickering of the family on the third floor into an orange booklet. While the squirrel is swiftly hopping past her, she has to crush and store the acorn in a vacuum. The window that is firmly closed has to be slapped with a shoe. On the other hand the clattering of crockery can be perfectly hooked onto a kite. The more difficult one to analyse is the painful cough of the upstairs neighbor, keeping the whole house awake at night, which she has to abandon into a rabbit hutch. The crying and fighting of the siblings and their incapable father, is turned with a dice, interrupted by the birthday song soothing the backyard and the unwrapping paper right after on the second floor, she usually stores that in a reservoir of coat hanger. The linden leaf floating on a spider string, stays a mystery to her.
And sometimes when the night falls she thinks about the seed that must have been brought along during colonial times, fallen out of the pocket, starting to grow right here, never able to breath the air of its land. It was the only one of its kind in this neighbourhood.

He wore a cap instead of a crown
and picked his lines up
from the air
and said them as they came
without a slightest delay.
He was tapping with his both feet
while he was rapping
and nobody wanted to cut him while he spoke
because he chose
the most delicious of words that they had ever heard.
It were the ones that were like fruits ripened in an abundant sun,
ready to drop their juices on ones tongue.
'I call my men by their indian names.'
said the lady who was closest to him. ' you are the one who is winning with words. i don't want there to be any confusion about this.'
He accepted his indian name and told her that he was going to call her by her given name, although it was not him but her father who had chosen it.
She accepted and told him that she had changed her name several times according to inner changes and developments, and also due to certain events in life, but that her given name was still a valid reference to her and that she liked the way he pronounced it.
They sat for a while defining the direction they were going to take and decided to follow the shadow instead of the sun for a change.
'Head or tales?'
A girl who had not turned thirteen yet was blocking their way on a narrow alley which they had entered. Her friend was standing next to her and they both looked like they were up for a fight.
'We don't like silence.' Said the one who had appeared first. She was dressed in black apart from a chain made of golden sculls that was hanging around her neck. She had a penetrating intense look, even though her eyes were slightly crossed.
'We don't have time for silence.' said the other one.
'What are we gambling on?'
Asked the one who is winning with words.
'Head or tales?' Said the girl again. Her voice was tense and slightly annoyed.
'We want to know the name of the game. As players we have the right to know. It's written in the rules.
'head or tales is the name of the game you invalid. Now your job is to choose!! ' The girls started to approach and the sand ratteled under their sneakers while they came closer in slow pace, all tensed like two jaguars.
I quickly straightened my back on the chair and instinctively lean forward like I was going to fight for real.
These were my favourite characters and I was not going to let the oracle beat them. Luckily they had the highest score on agility and hyper powers.
'Tales is what I say
And heads is what you see,
you kick me once I kick you twice
and at the end theres only me.'
He said and as soon as he finished the coin jumped straight up in the air and started spinning in a stroboscopic speed.
The return button would only make that coin turn faster in the air.
Demolishion is the fastest way to re-establishment.
Optic orgasm of flow motion in speed.
publishing date 15.08.2017
(Das Handwerk des Dichters - Jorge Luis Borges)

Again Elsa slept through the alarm at 7:10, preparing the food for lunch and dinner, unlocking her bike in the backyard.
Her eyes meet with his, through the window, next to the typical Berliner front door, when she walks her bike out onto the street. The coffee place, that keeps selling good koffie for a reasonable price, would surely be out of croissants by now. When Elsa bikes up that short path into the park she sees their blood lined eyes every time, ready to sell you 'stuff for baking' as Jimmy would call it. She manages to stay on the lane with the smooth stones passing the Russian bar, she would possibly not even recognize him anymore, it was late and dark then.
Why would you start a bike-shop on a raised ground floor? Maybe that is why one screw costs a euro?
As much as Elsa enjoys the fact of a green wave of traffic lights, she finds delight in watching this crossroad and the encounter of most different types walking from one or the other direction, lost, determined or curious.
Moving up the bricked bridge, she realizes they added even more furniture, piling up until the next evacuation.
She manoeuvres her bike around the two bumps on the road, making a right, passing the immense buildings in which dreams are made to come true. Ironically with the marble monolith (a seat design by the city) placed in front of the building, displaying all his belongings on it, a blanket- a cup- a plastic bag- a box- a shirt.
Another bump on the street. Another bridge, green, from the family of Tour Eiffel, used by young people to watch the sunset or the moon, most likely in a romantic way. The cafe with the dusty windows on the right, where the cars never mind to leave space for the passing bikers, is long closed. Ohh that annoying crossing! 'Do I turn left right now or first right then straight? Or take the pavement?', Elsa decides not to stop and buy that affordable self made cake from the Schwäbische bakery, with their tiny 'try a bite' pieces of cheesecake on the counter. She is suspicious about that ugly hotel just before the S-Bahn bridge, as she meets the street. The street that seems to be in need of a makeover for no one knows how long already. An enforcement of perspective by abruptly changing unknown lanes.
She is passing by the car with a sticker that suggests it was just coming back from an off-road trip though the mud.
The guys, that smoked their red blood cells aside, causing some amputated legs, are taking a break in front of the apartment building. She smiles when she sees the big AfD election poster being half ripped off, hanging uncharitably from the wall. Elsa turns left almost reaching her destination, presuming another Tatort being shoot next door, when she breathes in sitting down on her chair.

o as in ohm
x as in xylophone
y as in you

g as in gas
e as in electric chair
n as in neutrality, nativity and nude.

We are close like two atoms of a molecule
side by side
the bond is tight
forming something different
than what we were alone.
that we now desire more
than to be ourselves.

new territories
new perspectives
new orders
new rules
news from people I didn't use to know.

Is it me?
Is it still me or
have I transformed
into an other form
from where
returning to the preceding stages
is no longer possible?
Have I changed fundamentally
just functionally,
or maybe
only superficially?
Is this a dream
and if it is
where will I wake up next
and who will be around me then?

I feel the urge to control
the event that is taking place
and that is transforming me.
I want to grab the horse and ride away, away
a way

I always know
the right moment to fuck off,
I think I know,
but the sadness is bigger.
It's unfolding like an umbrella
above my heart
to protect it from fear.
The sadness is the shield
against fear.
My fear that you go first.
My fear that I'm alone
no matter what.
My fear that I will hurt you.
My fear to get hurt.
My fear of things not being what they look like.
My fear of the immense
and of being much too weak
or much too powerful.

My breath is still my anchor and it's keeping me alive.
If I was to leave you
then these questions would not be asked
nor answered.
Let's just call it
the yin of love for now.

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