The finishing line

Do not judge a book by its cover; and true to form, I do not think I ever have. People are made of so many labyrinthine details that I uncovered early on, with the utmost pleasure, that (first) impressions never last. Nonetheless, when I take this most beloved idiom down to its literal sense; when every book is flirting with me while I roam past them in bookstores, each one begging to be the one to be picked out... Rest assured, the saying is not just a metaphor: I never judge a book by its cover either. 

I actually leave it to so-called chance when I am searching for my new read. The genre and author are not necessarily main factors, the recommendations-of-the-week table – though always eye-catching – will not automatically hold the winner of the day; in fact, the title cover and the back page with its inviting summary and rave reviews do not even have to be extraordinary. How, then, do I ultimately make a choice? When I locate a book, I immediately go to the last chapter, the last paragraph, the last sentence –– and it all comes down to those last words. If they are not perfect, they just aren't. 

I am not really sure when or why I picked up this habit. It probably began sometime during University when huge reading lists were simply dictated; often not leaving time nor energy to read anything else in our free time or for our own amusement. Since I could not decide on the read, I could at least see what I was looking forward to. I know what you are thinking. Why on earth would I read the last part of a book? Do I not live in a world where we flee from spoilers as best we can, knowing all too well that a revealing, voracious key element will inevitably wind up on the news feed? Truth is, it is not the ending per se that matters most to me, because since I know neither characters nor plot at that point, reading it beforehand like I do will not make much sense anyway. However, if the words are indeed written beautifully, it will positively push me to unearth how the author gets there. Of course, an amazing (finishing) line does not imply that the book was good on a whole and a masterpiece I will recommend. Still, with certainty, there will be that famous enlightening bulb at the turn of the last page: Now it makes sense.

Oftentimes, I wish I could start life with the last page. I would like to think we already do on some level. We all have endeavors, plans, dreams and goals we work ourselves up to; and from the onset, a tiny peek at those last words is enough to inspire us. We draft an endgame. The ideal weight. Dream holidays. A tailored job. That house we are not able to afford today. The last sentence appears to be the one and only thing that helps us begin in the first place. In a way, we think forwards then live backwards. Reality is, similar to roaming ever so slowly in a bookstore, a lot of decisions, especially quite ambitious ones, rely on the same conditions as my book of choice –– based solely on the outcome. We do not know exactly what we are venturing into, even less how long it will take us; but we know for a fact that the ending is at least written beautifully. 

Naturally, it does not work that way at all. I am well aware that our lives are written as we go along. A stage towards a certain goal, even a small one, can become an epic novel rather than the short story we originally intended it to be. And even when we are willing to take the story in a certain direction; although we might hold the pen, life will always settle on just writing one word after another, and taking it day by day with not a hint of certainty. We may be able to review; unlike in writing though, there is no possibility to erase – or even edit – a past chapter. Not the good parts, especially not the bad parts. Sure, we all understand that life is a journey, not a destination; but I will be damned if I hear someone claim s/he never gets tired of journeying on some occasions. It is given we are proud of how far we come on good days. Nevertheless, when we get writer's block on difficult chapters, it will not be the journey that makes us want to write better, but the fact that we penned the destination already. Now it makes sense. 

Enthusiasm, unlimited

It is good to be careful, but there is nothing worse than being too careful.

Bad habit

Twenty-one days,

They say,

Only twenty-one days

Til a new habit

Has a face ;

Kicking the one out

They wish to replace. 

I can and I will,

I have

Worn change

As a second skin.

Twenty-one days,

They say,

Rather a lifetime,

If I may. 

For true smokers hate quitting

Who are we kidding –

No switch for a cigarette lit ;

A new regime

To be a little more fit,

Ending cravings that will never leave

With alternatives. 

We persevere.

Like an alcoholic giving up the bottle ;

Not taking a drink will always be a battle.

Twenty-one days,

They say,

Forever, if I may.

I love my bad habits ;

Glory is in continuing 

(to quit).

Wobbly chair

I am sitting

On a wobbly chair

Off balance, is there still a chance

It is not all bad

But since when

Is that enough

At least two have to be strong

One leg solid, the other consistent

Last two well built 

Uneasy til I fix it

Lean back, I may fall

Find the centre of gravity though

I could rock.

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.