I met her

I am not certain. It might have been shortly after our eyes locked or in the moment I decided to sit behind her. The Professor philosophised about the Greek and Indian conception of soul. I philosophised about her hair. The result was the same.

Her skin made me repel. It was too perfect. From every perspective I occupied, it presented me the same unearthly shimmer. Like a sheen of oil it was boasting with iridescent colours, making my eyes squint and my mouth water. How does it taste to lick along her neck? How does it smell to breath between her breasts? And how do they make love on the planet she comes from?

She was fidgeting her long elf-like limbs as the first words gushed from her mouth. „Who are you? From where? Have you been to India? I like your vest!“ Electrified and undirected she shot her loud outbursts into my ear. I couldn´t listen. The sounds of her eyes drowned out her words. Two turquoise violins singing wild and fierce, engraving their melody into my soul and filling me up with the cold clarity of a star-filled night. I shivered.

When a lamb gets caught by its predator, it pretends to be dead. Trapped between the playful grip of a child and the wielding claw of a lioness, I choked my whimper. She was playing with her prey, unaware of the terror she caused. Funny how the instinct of survival can hold your breath until you´re close to dying of suffocation. Terrified by the force of her nature, I fell silent, wondering if my pounding heart was hearable to her catlike ears. Never have I witnessed a power-play of God, but this must have been his grande finale. Her mighty tusks were snarling at me, gleaming in the mysterious blue of a moonstone. The cavernous throat threatened me with its endlessly deep abyss. A tugging invite to fall in love.

We sat down in the dry savanna grass. Right leg on top of the left. Straight spine. Soft gaze. Was I mirroring her or was she mirroring me? And would it make a difference to know? Her gestures were restlessly orbiting around her stories. Big and weighty stories, blown up by the continuously running pump of her imagination. She is a dreamer, just like me. Maybe that´s how we´ve met before.

We stood up simultaneously and leaned towards the same side for a hug. My face came close to hers. My breath formed a patch of dew on the glass. Or was it her breath? For a short moment we stood there, drawing symbols on the pane, playing with reflections of the sun, peering into the depth we´ve created. Two mirrors facing each other, enchanted by the endless self they perceive. Philosophy of soul. Greek conceptions. Indian conceptions. Her hair.

Now I was certain. Walking away I knew that she´d turn around only if I do. But my joints turned to stone, and my skin grew stiff bark, protecting me from this neck-breaking, life-risking, death-daring twist that was imposed upon me. I heard a raucous voice emerging from the ancient ember burning in my deep. The voice was screaming our names, promising rich rewards, if we´d jump into its flames. It was impossible to ignore its cry. It was unmistakeable. It was inescapable. Call it divine. Call it sacred. Call it fate. No matter what it was, it foresaw my destiny. Thick chunks of rock and bark broke off of me as the voice commanded my body to move. The me I knew crumbled to dust and the wooden chippings fed the fire licking along my spine. I never knew that falling in love feels much like dying. I turned, she turned, and we dissolved into flames.

Lasting Solar System

If only there were a point. An anchor of stillness. Even a hint of a lasting sun within my ever-morphing universe of wildly whiffting dreams and uncertain gusts of desire. If only there were a gravitational pole standing in the middle of my cosmic sandstorms, giving me hold as my troubled feet dance around its gleaming core. It would dictate my every step and pull me in steady circles along its motherly curves, finally leading me home.
But I keep gravitating towards dying stars and long-lost moons. Pulling me into their promising orbits for a round or two, they scream from the drive of my heavy longing. They won’t withstand my piled-up baggage of weighty souvenirs. None of them ever did.  

Eventually, their invisible strings have to give in to the tearing pressure of my restless mass. They snap, let go and release me back into the cold but welcoming arms of the endlessly unknown. With yet another ripped string dangling from my heart, I’m reminded of yet another harshly ripped rope of hope, seduced to yet another childish wish that one day, my long-awaited sun will entangle itself in my hairy atmosphere.

Yes, one day, the aimlessly drifting planet of mine will find its lasting solar system and, together, we spiral into the widening womb of infinity, birthing new forms of life.

#BustBanality #PostPhilosophy

Der öffentliche Raum ist mit Banalität befleckt, denn die witzlosen Werbetafeln füttern uns mit unbekömmlicher Geistesnahrung. Es wird Zeit, dass die Philosophie aus ihrem akademischen Kokon heraustritt und die Straßen mit ihrer nährreichen Weisheit bedeckt. Denn der Mensch sehnt sich nach Sättigung und an vielen Straßenecken knurren die Mägen der luftleeren Geister. Drum sollen sie gemästet werden, auf dass sie hoch empor wachsen und aus diesen Höhen kaum noch die mickrigen Werbetafeln sehen mögen, die einst ihre ermatteten Augen mit dickem Nebel belagerten. Ach, wem genügt denn schon das Banale und Flache, wenn sich im Geiste unendliche Weiten auftun, die zum Eintauchen einladen.

Deckt schon mal den Tisch, meine Kinder, ich koche euch euer Lieblingsgericht! Philosophia!