Commandment

Sometimes, in life, you have to listen to a voice you cannot hear. 

Neutral

All experiences are good – even the bad ones.

The edge

The first raclette of the season only means one thing in Switzerland – in my eyes at least – colder temperatures are upon us, thus, it is the end (or the beginning, depending on how you look at it.) Trees gradually shedding their skin while us mere mortals grudgingly cover ours, we chase after sunsets that, unfailingly, arrive too early to the party. And though summer will occasionally come out for a last hurrah, we know in our core that there is something about that morning breeze that we can no longer shake off. 

It is not all that bad though, I like fall – when nature takes out her brush and transforms every corner into an art gallery. Fall is flirty. Fall is fiery. Fall is fearless. And just at the moment we fathom it is the season for raclette again – as if it were the one hibernating during the heat, the craving is immediate. It awakens the child in all of us. Famished. And now. Waiting impatiently for the slices of cheese to melt, then scraping (raclette derives from the verb "racler", to scrape) it ever so slowly on tiny potatoes, with best friends dried meat, pickled onions and gherkins to make sure that the experience is complete; whoever coined the incorrigible term foodgasm, I will kiss his hand. I had my first raclette a couple of days ago. 

Like most dishes with abundant cheese, however, it got heavy pretty quickly. Scrape that. The dish is cheese, and it gets heavy instantly – and best friends gherkins, pickled onions and dried meat only remotely soothe the journey. As I was sitting with my sister at the table, we both wondered how such heavenly taste can easily turn into something so filling – revolting almost –  in a heartbeat. The edge. I could only agree with her train of thought, pointing out that the uncanny thing about our Swiss pride is that the first sensation of melting cheese in our mouth provides such a high; we are bound to continue to eat as many slices as possible – not to satisfy our hunger – but somehow in the hope of magically feeling that first rush again, so vehemently. Truth be told, getting that edge is practically impossible to recreate. A lost cause. I am always curious as to why I have to learn that same lesson every time I prepare raclette. It is cheese after all – and of course I ended up more stuffed than I intended to. 

One of my closest friends from university always asks me why I have to put value on each experience of my life; not only that but why the best and the worst are the most beloved –– if not most used –– words in my vocabulary. The best holiday of my life, the best party I have been to, the worst man in history, the worst essay I have written. I reckon I do not do it on purpose, but if I were to let my stories speak truth, the Trans-Siberian was the best adventure, that techno marathon at Berghain in 2005 was the best night I ever had or the worst person I encountered is still that old man throwing racist insults at us in front of hundreds in that tram in Vienna back in the 1990's. Finally, I regard my essay on my favorite genre, the Bildungsroman, as the worst essay I have ever handed to a professor. Perhaps I do live in hyperboles, and with good reason. The edge.

When is the prime of your life? And if you fancy to have lived it already, is there such a thing as just one peak? Or is it a series of highs with satiated, semi-dormant times bridging the gaps? Take for instance artists blessed with a one-hit wonder, but who unfortunately never managed to reach the same (or better) success afterward; or a ballet dancer who has to hang up her shoes to let a younger one take her place. If there is such a thing as reaching the peak, anything that follows seems unmatched and simultaneously, merely a yen for that initial rush. Bring out another album, be a choreographer. Yet like raclette, getting that edge seems nearly impossible to recreate – not because you cannot have any more of it, in some form you will; but eventually, any clean slate gets dirty. 

The reason I give so much value on each experience of my life is because of the edge. It was flirty, fiery, fearless. It still is. I have yet to be proven wrong. In fairness, considering it the edge may be the result of an afterthought, a judgment only given in hindsight; but with time, I learned to be fully aware when magic happened. It was the best; and it was the worst. I will always overindulge on moments to the point that it is almost revolting, not because I wish to get satiated but because I am convinced I never will be. I will not live my life otherwise. Truthfully, I have yet to be proven wrong. Sure, we worry that we have seen so much that even new surprises seem like memorabilia already. We constantly fear that we suffered one too many times that we can only end up jaded. Has the prime of your life already passed you by? Thinking it has solely depends on the strength of your inner child, however, I am fairly certain that a lifetime is indeed a series of highs; nevertheless, it is a trap to let the times bridging the gaps be dormant. It is given that it will never be that initial high that only the unexpected, unmatched can provide; but fundamentally, it all comes down to falling in love with our life that becomes less edgy. It is not all that bad. The rush – even just the desire of it  – definitely drives us, puts our life into fifth gear again; but anything that follows is also quite extraordinary. The bliss of an enduring journey. Photos make moments last forever; but they also remind us of a time that can never be again. Your wedding may famously count as the best day of your life, but you will get to celebrate anniversaries all the years after that. You might experience pregnancy only once, after, you will carry your child's heart when it will be his turn to live all his first firsts. Ultimately, it is not the new we fall in love with, but familiarity.

Long gone and forever yours

Photos make moments last forever; but they also remind us of a time that can never be again.

Run

You run,

Chasing after none

There is no fear in your momentum,

Not a bitter thought once fallen.

Your memories are new 

At thirty-two, I have made a few.

You will run, 

Chasing after some.

There will be fear in your momentum

Many bitter thoughts once fallen.

Your memories are new

How could I forget, mine are too. 

Break

We take a break from work

From life; and fights

People we avoid

People we adore

One and the same

When the head has already left.

Amongst strangers

Widened horizons 

On a rooftop somewhere

Playing djembe in the middle of nowhere

Far from everything

Suddenly it hits

Less or more,

Who am I 

Without my focal points? 

I will be richer

In memories

Come back tanned,

Stuffed and happy

The routine continued just fine

Without me.

Those I avoid

Those I adore

Sitting at work,

My life; and fights

One and the same

Once the heart is back in the apartment.

When we look forward to

Do we leave it all

Wherever we go?

Looking back

Did I not take it all

Wherever I strolled?

Untrue to my word

I am true to my word

Except when it comes to us

I mean when I say
Yes and no mean the same.

I need you to leave 

Go ape once I put it to ink

Thinking I will never kiss those lips

See that smile of his.

I am weak

Because you make me strong

I push you away

Because all this is wrong.

It is for the best

I feel worse once said

Back and forth

My words lose their worth

I promise I do not love you

I don't, I don't. 

Life continues as before

Life continues as before

I will press snooze three times

Before getting ready for work;

My waiter will ask me

How I take my usual coffee

And I will check dreams 

Off my list

As long as I breathe.

Life continues as before

Except in those quiet moments

I recall our moments

Written in stone.

Don't we all start off as strangers?

Before soon enough,

One takes a piece of your heart

You never want back.

We cross paths just to part

Everyone leaves 

And we are left with memories;

The waves will wash away our footsteps

But not the fact that we made them.

Life continues as before

The world will not stop

But I will –

Then for a second,

You and I share a moment.

Street poetry

Empty streets

Two souls

Filled with memories

Of the past

Our past ;

We have walked these streets before

Young and in love

Our entire lives ahead of us.

We knew everything back then

Until time taught us

Doubt everything.

I see these words for the first time

Though they have always been here

Long before my love of words,

I found.

Empty streets

A poetry reading

We have been here before

Why are we here once more ?

A word

As long as I live, the well is infinite.

Freedom

Sun kissed,

The warm wind skating on my skin

One hand on the shoulder,

The other one holding on tight to this moment.

A day for the books,

In mine nonetheless

Our past months rumbling in my helmet,

Taking me on this ride to where we are heading.

I close my eyes to see

Right here, I am free.

The real thing

Some people will never experience Berlin

Except through stories,

Have their thirst for the thrill quenched

Than by reading.

Close, but never close enough ;

I never saw that sunset,

Just the reflection of it,

And it was just as perfect.

Not all love stories have the happy ending

But that does not make them any less real 

Than the real thing.

The same poem

A new beginning,

A comparable ending

It is the same poem

I keep writing.

The message differs

The titles adjust

One more figure of speech

For picking up a broken piece.

Elusive alterations

Editing the outcome

A plethora of versions 

For my book of poems.

Another round,

Back to square one

Are there any words left

This heart has not said.

Foreign land

If he really loved you...

If he really loved me, what? 

I suffer from Fernweh constantly,

Which horribly translates to wanderlust in English

Read the irony;

Still, I am traveling.

His blue eyes gallivant for a split second,

Sensible to where his mind escapes to,

I let him. 

I go fetch him water

He sneaks up from behind

Never turning around, 

He sees my soul full frontal.

If he really loved you...

If I really loved him, I know

What works

He is foreign land,

And I do not own a map.

Half love

Half a life
Half a love
Undivided submission;

Half-hearted
I am utterly devoted
To lesser moments.

Between the sheets
The mind drifts
In search of atonement;

Part-time wrong
Entirely yours
An inevitable outcome.

It is living half a life
Accepting half love
Full-time;

My light,
Take me out of the dark

The courage within to say goodbye.

I will kill you with a metaphor

I will kill you with a metaphor

My feelings censored

Behind beautiful words.

I dare not say it to your face

The euphemism 

When I am burning with anger.

Toying with the void

Here I concoct

The right expression;

My sweet weapon

Retort with an oxymoron.

Then nothing; no paradox or pun

I am even at a loss 

For a rhyme. 

For when our eyes meet

It is poetry I read,

Without a word

We say it all.

I'm fine

I'm fine

When I am

I'm fine

When I am not

I'm fine

Whenever I am asked.

I am tormented

On the brink of madness

If I go through 

Yet another sleepless night

Whenever I am asked,

I'm fine.

We talk more

Smile and joke 

They are 

The wrong words.

I am worried

Ashamed of breaking

I am crying for help

I will say

I'm fine

Instead.

I'm fine

When I am

I'm fine 

When I am not

I'm fine

When I am everything but.

The biggest lie

The truth behind

Listen,

I am not.