The Electric Town

There’s probably no place in the world that makes weebs’ hearts beat faster than Akihabara. Enthusiasts of Japanese pop culture will find everything they could dream of in this district, known far beyond the borders of Tokyo. From anime, manga, video games, and J-pop CDs to books, trading cards, figures, model kits, cosplay costumes, and even hentai, it’s a paradise for otaku. But Akihabara isn’t called the Electronic City for nothing. For those less into nerdy pop culture, it’s a haven for tech lovers, offering everything from cell phones and computers to spare parts and gadgets. Akihabara is a phenomenon that completely consumes everyone who enters it.

Historically, Akihabara was located near one of Edo’s city gates, serving as a gateway between the city and northwestern Japan. This made it home to many craftsmen, merchants, and samurai. Since its opening in 1890, Akihabara Station became a hub for freight traffic, fostering the growth of a vegetable and fruit market. By the 1920s, the station saw heavy passenger traffic as it opened to public transport. After World War II, the district’s black market thrived in the absence of strong government control, transforming Akihabara into a bustling market town. By the 1930s, it evolved into a center for household electronics, solidifying its reputation in this niche.

Walking through Akihabara’s bustling streets, I’m greeted by big-eyed cartoon characters with even bigger boobs. Girls in brightly colored maid outfits shout cheerfully, offering flyers for themed cafés. The air is filled with the scent of plastic, tea, and sweat. In the stores, young women and middle-aged men alike browse the latest issues of Weekly Shonen Jump, Ribon, and Ciao. Each floor is a universe unto itself - some filled with slot machines, others with art supplies, and hidden ones with cute sex toys. Once I’ve immersed myself in Akihabara’s fantastic anime, manga, and video game world, I may never find my way out again.

Open Your Eyes

As with every nineties nerd, The Legend of Zelda is one of the game series that has accompanied me since childhood. My real entry into the series was the third installment, The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past on the Super Nintendo. I played this adventure so many times that I knew every area by heart. Thanks to a questionably legal cheat module I picked up at a flea market, I squeezed every last bit of life out of the game. It allowed me to have all the items from the start and sneak past the otherwise stubborn guards on that rainy, fateful day without even beginning the obligatory castle tour. I’m sure Nintendo wouldn’t have appreciated that kind of rebellion.

The stories in The Legend of Zelda games are typically the same: A silent knight tries to save a kingdom overrun by dark forces and, ideally, wins the heart of a beautiful princess in the process. Since this premise alone wouldn’t draw anyone away from the comfort of their couch, the series thrives on tricky puzzles, quirky characters, and an enchanting world full of exploration. Of course, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the Nintendo 64 was the game that truly immortalized the series for me. A vast 3D world to freely explore, paired with graphics that literally blew my mind. And following that one, Majora’s Mask became my all-time favorite.

For me, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild on the Switch is the logical progression from the first Nintendo 64 installment. The world is even bigger, the puzzles even trickier, and Zelda even prettier. There’s probably no other game where I enjoy aimlessly wandering, just to see what I’ll discover next. And I always find something - a deserted beach, a quaint village, a mysterious labyrinth. I only wish there had been a few real dungeons and larger cities with more inhabitants. Running into the same old shrines and stables got a bit tiresome after a while. Nevertheless, Breath of the Wild is an experience that will forever hold a special place in my heart.

The Nostalgic Paradise

Tokyo is much more than just Shibuya, Akihabara, and Harajuku. If I want to experience different places than the usual tourists, I have to go to places that are less well-known but no less exciting. For example, Odaiba, the artificial island in Tokyo Bay, which is a popular entertainment and shopping area for locals. Before 1996, Odaiba was purely a business district. The Japanese economy was at one of its peaks and the island was to become the model of futuristic living. In total, the construction of the island cost over 10 billion US dollars. But the bubble burst in 1991, an event the Japanese called Kakaku Hakai. Half a decade later, the area was mostly abandoned.

After the renovation, Odaiba became a thriving entertainment and shopping center with all kinds of restaurants, stores, and amusement arcades. A giant Gundam statue looms over visitors, who usually arrive in the evening, and there is no end of comics, collectible figures, and knick-knacks. Odaiba is a nostalgic paradise that visitors to the Japanese capital shouldn’t miss. The Daiba Itchome Shotengai, which is located in the middle of a shopping center and seems to be from a bygone era, is particularly worth a visit. Coming here is like traveling back in time. Many families, as well as some nerds, take the opportunity to experience exactly that, right there.

When I enter the shopping street, I feel as if I’ve been teleported to a fantasy memory. There are old slot machines, pinball machines, and pachinko machines. Posters of idols from the eighties, nineties, and early two-thousands hang on the walls. I recognize the faces of Yumi Matsutoya, Ayumi Hamasaki, and Perfume. The shelves are crammed with food and bric-a-brac. There are sweets, ice cream, and chewing gum. But also plushies, toy cars, and colorful printed socks. Anime and manga everywhere. I can catch goldfish at one stand, play Mario Kart at the next, and a ghost house awaits me a few meters away. If I died here and now, I wouldn’t even be angry.

I Only Dreamed of You

Mima Kirigoe is ready to leave her career as a celebrated pop idol behind and pursue an even brighter future as an actress. However, shedding her former image proves more difficult than she imagined, as the murky world of show business threatens to pull her into the depths of despair. The strain of her new path gradually takes its toll, while a menacing presence from her past lurks in the background. Can Mima hold on to what truly matters to her? And as delusion, fiction, and reality blur in her mind, what truly drives her? Mima embarks on a psychologically harrowing journey into the farthest corners of man-made insanity.

Without a doubt, the 1997 film Perfect Blue, directed by Satoshi Kon and based on the novel by Yoshikazu Takeuchi, is one of those anime films you must see before you die. And I was finally able to cross it off my bucket list recently. What begins as a story about a starlet and her obsessed stalker gradually transforms into a web of broken dreams and unreliable memories. As a tense viewer, I descended through one meta-level after another alongside Mima’s unraveling thoughts, until I was left completely exhausted by the torrent of psychotic impressions that overwhelmed me. Who is Mima? Where is Mima? And, most importantly: Why is Mima?

Step by step, I witnessed Mima, sweet, cheerful, and naive at the start, being thrust into a hell of depression, murder, and violation. Who can I trust? When do I stop being myself? And, in the end, which decisions were right - and which were wrong? Perfect Blue is a visually stunning and sonically powerful journey into the darkest depths of the human soul, enhanced by Masahiro Ikumi’s fantastic soundtrack. The film masterfully illustrates how hope and despair are often just an unintended step apart, and how the truth may be nothing more than a long-forgotten thought, quietly replaced by fear, panic, and the desperate search for a redemptive answer.

A Journey Into the Past

Tokyo, once known as Edo, began as a small, insignificant dump. It only grew into the most important city in Japan when Tokugawa Ieyasu, the third feudal ruler after Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, built a castle there in 1590. If I’m looking to explore beyond the hottest fashion trends, tastiest food varieties, and cutest schoolgirls in Tokyo, beyond Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara, then Asakusa is the place for me. Not only is it home to the hotel where I’m staying, but it also hosts Sensoji, the oldest Buddhist temple in the city. For a long time, Asakusa was known as an entertainment district, home to kabuki and rakugo theaters.

Asakusa has a past I could still sense here and there. After the Meiji Restoration, the modern entertainment industry began to take root, with Western theaters and cinemas emerging. However, after World War II, Asakusa’s popularity as an entertainment hub waned, with districts like Shinjuku rising to prominence. Today, in addition to Sensoji, Asakusa is primarily known for the Nakamise shopping promenade and the annual Shinto festival, Sanja Matsuri. I also found many delicious traditional restaurants around the temple, where I could grill and season my own food, as well as numerous pachinko halls where I could test my luck.

This enormous metropolis on the other side of the world has a deeply traditional side. And every walk through Asakusa is also a journey into the past. Just step out of one of the bustling shopping streets, and I’ll find myself in the middle of a small forest, an old temple complex, or surrounded by lovingly crafted shrines. I can only imagine the small and grand spectacles that have taken place at Sensoji over the past thousand years. Despite all the colorful anime, manga, and video games that I typically associate with Japan, I feel surprisingly grounded and calm here. Perhaps I should visit such holy and magical places more often.

That Could Have Been Us, but You Don’t Care

For many years now, I wanted nothing to do with German culture. I switched all my consumption habits to English and looked down contemptuously on anyone still crawling through the oozy cesspool of German-language entertainment because they didn’t know any better. For me, German-dubbed TV shows were proof of bottomless stupidity. German novels fell into one of two categories: Cheesy crime junk set on the Baltic coast, or coming-of-age ‘my-mother-is-an-alcoholic-and-I-just-want-to-fuck‘ bullshit. As for German music, I wanted to hear, haha, nothing about it - just the thought of the whole Schlager-pop-Deutschrap crap made me want to vomit.

Now that I’m older, wiser, and totally at peace with myself, hashtag I wish, I’ve come to finally realize that I can’t tear myself away from my German roots, no matter how much, for whatever reason, I wished I could. I need the German language. I love the German language. I don’t want to reject it. Its systematic harshness is simply divine. And the German language is not just another random dialect on this earth, it’s a shared identity between me and those who use it. I’ve learned that the German language and its accompanying culture can inspire me in ways, especially on a deep, intrinsic level, that no other vernacular can.

So now, I actively seek out people who express their feelings, thoughts, and hopes as authentically as possible in my mother tongue, using it in creative ways, especially in music. Artists like Paula Hartmann, Berq, and Lotte give me a cozy sense of home with their lyrics, even when I’m standing on the other side of the world. My latest discovery is Liska. Her songs are genuinely emotional without descending into cheesiness, and they resonate with me through various feelings and experiences. German-language music hasn’t been this interesting since Juli, Wir sind Helden, and the very, very, very early days of Silbermond.

Center of My World

When I think of Japan, I picture the bustling intersection at the heart of Shibuya. As the traffic lights at each corner finally turn green, crowds of uniformed salarymen, laughing schoolgirls, and amazed tourists stream toward one another, briefly merging into a homogeneous mass before dispersing back into their daily routines. On my first visit to the Land of the Rising Sun, halfway across the globe, the very first place I consciously visited was this iconic landmark in the middle of Tokyo. I took the train straight from the airport to Shibuya, met a few friendly people there, and found myself not only in the center of Japan, but in the center of my world.

Due to the anticipation of the 2020 Olympic Games and their underwhelming presentation a year later, the popular district at the heart of Japan’s capital has undergone significant transformation in the recent decade to appeal to both locals and visitors. I became most aware of this with the redesign of the city’s famous Shibuya 109 logo, which sits prominently atop a fashion-savvy shopping center. The more such signposts change, the more I realize that time is moving on helplessly and doesn’t care about my nostalgic feelings. But maybe that’s a good thing. After all, change is life and the more Shibuya develops, the less I have to worry about its future.

As I stand at the edge of the intersection, I see the red traffic lights ahead, rising above the crowd on the opposite side, and the models advertising clothes, food, and phone contracts on massive screens. I hear the voices of those around me, the eager motorcade, and the man on a platform shouting into the crowd with a megaphone. I smell a mix of expensive perfume and cheap deodorant, taste the green tea I’m carrying in a plastic bottle, and brace myself to feel the bodies of hundreds of people. Then, the moment comes. Red turns to green. I step forward, becoming one with Shibuya, Tokyo, and Japan - neither for the first time nor the last.

All the World’s a Stage

When Hikari is thrust onto the recently set up stage of a seemingly innocent chamber play, fate strikes a desperate blow against the most stubborn and dangerous form of conservatism - the one powered by pure fear of being alone. The audience demands change before it is suffocated by the dreariness of the powerful. Fresh blood must pave the way for a new future. Few of the actors suspect that the light of hope conceals a story of self-sacrifice that transcends any level of human friendship. The bright star in the sky seems within reach, but whoever touches it in the end must live on with the possible burden of drifting apart from the ones they love.

Both strangers and friends sometimes ask about my favorite anime. Then I proudly list widely known classics like Neon Genesis Evangelion, Cowboy Bebop, and Ghost in the Shell. After all, these titles suggest what kind of anime I prefer and where my roots lie in this sometimes condemned Japanese art form. I also secretly hope this keeps me from being labeled a complete weeb if I omit that I also enjoyed series like Akebi’s Sailor Uniform, Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, and Eromanga Sensei - for various reasons. However, one of my all-time favorite anime is, and remains, Revue Starlight by Tomohiro Furukawa - because it is simply perfect from start to finish.

Revue Starlight follows a motley group of friendly schoolgirls from a renowned theater academy who secretly battle each other underground to become the star of their personal stage in life. When the lazy Karen’s lost childhood friend suddenly appears in class, it triggers the healing of a world whose progress has come to a standstill. Everything about Revue Starlight is exceptional. The characters are fantastic, the animation style is striking, and the music is so good that I could listen to the soundtrack on repeat for days. It’s a shame that Revue Starlight is only known to a few hardcore fans. I sincerely hope you watch it one day and celebrate it as passionately as I do.

Journey to the East

The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home. Am I running away from myself, or am I simply longing for another world that will make me love my own again? Those who share my destination feel understood only from afar. I stifle my fear of the unknown with the certainty that I’ve chosen it over the comforting arms of monotony on purpose. After all, standing still is death, and death will come soon enough. It seems only logical to sacrifice time with people I like for the possibility of uncovering white spots on my personal map. So, I close my eyes and wait for the moment when the doors to a strange universe open for me.

Before I finally begin my semester abroad in the Japanese coastal city of Kumamoto on Kyushu as a student of the renowned Sojo University in October, I plan to spend a few days in Tokyo. It’s been over ten years since I last visited this enchanted metropolis at the edge of the world, and I can’t wait to aimlessly wander through the wonderous temples of Shibuya, the cheerful bars of Shinjuku, and the farraginous manga stores of Akihabara to see what has changed in the last decade. I’ve booked a room in a modest hotel in Asakusa and will set out from there, day and night, to explore both the bustling streets and the narrow alleyways nearby and beyond.

Having already lived in Tokyo and visited cities like Osaka, Kyoto, and Yokohama, I feel prepared for the biggest culture shocks and can focus on seeking new experiences and adventures - hopefully beyond the typical tourist attractions. The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home. That place is Tokyo, a man-made melting pot of diverse cultures where all my escapist dreams, hopes, and fantasies converge. May I find even a fraction of my expectations between the lives of millions of people. I hope to return home with new ideas, goals, and visions. Perhaps I'll even meet myself over there, on the other side of the world.

Four Sisters and a Funeral

The three sisters, Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika, live together in the coastal town of Kamakura. When they learn of their estranged father’s death, they decide to travel to the countryside for his funeral. There, they meet their half-sister, Suzu, for the first time. Quickly forming a bond, they invite the girl to live with them, and she enthusiastically agrees, beginning a new life with her sisters. Amidst the changing colors of Japan’s four seasons, the young women learn in Our Little Sister by Hirokazu Koreeda from each other, sharing a wide range of emotions and supporting one another through life’s varied challenges, forming a unique and profound connection.

Set against the backdrop of the summer ocean glistening in sunlight, glowing autumn foliage, an avenue of fading cherry blossom trees, rain-soaked hydrangeas, and brilliant fireworks welcoming a new summer, the young women’s touching and relatable tale captures the irreplaceable moments that define a true family. Accompanied by the beautiful music of legendary composer Yoko Kanno, known for epic works such as Tokyo Sora, Petal Dance, and Kamikaze Girls, each scene in Our Little Sister resonates with the main character’s struggles and triumphs. Every piano note has meaning, and every stroke of the violin tells a different story.

Our Little Sister is a light drama about people in different stages of life, scarred by the past but refusing to let it define their future. Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika don’t hesitate to welcome their half-sister Suzu into their lives, offering her the family she never had. As the four women stand on the beach after another milestone, laughing and gazing into the distance, I feel grateful to have met them and the other inhabitants of their town. I’ve shared in their joyful and sorrowful moments, and I hope that the future of these four sisters will shine as brightly as the small fireworks that lit up the overgrown garden of their old house just a few moments before.

Goodbye Augsburg

Exactly one year ago, I moved to Augsburg. I wanted not only to be closer to my university but also to the people I had spent most of my time with since starting my studies. The city in the far south of Germany welcomed me with open arms, gradually drawing me into its most remote corners thanks to the warmth of various friendly faces. I wandered through vivid house parties, colorful music festivals, and boozy riverside gatherings, made myself comfortable in cozy bars, and spent my nights with like-minded souls. No matter where I ended up at the end of the day, I was always surrounded by people whose true love for the present moment seemed boundless.

Now, my self-imposed fate is once again pulling me away from a life I’ve slowly come to love. With my semester abroad in Japan approaching, I’ve sublet my apartment to a fellow student, meaning I’ll have to say goodbye to Augsburg - at least for a while. I know the city will keep breathing, loving, and crying without me, continuing to be a euphoric playground for all kinds of human escapades. To Augsburg, I am just a fleeting visitor on my eternal quest for happiness. But that’s okay. I realized long ago that staying in one place too long does me no good. Maybe I’m nothing more than a restless nomad who’s secretly afraid of any kind of commitment.

As I gaze over the seemingly endless rooftops of Augsburg, watching the sky slowly darken while the laughter and lights behind me grow brighter, I realize that I will miss this city and the people I’m leaving behind in it. The stories they write from now on will no longer include my name. I’ll become their past. But sometimes, I have to make grown-up decisions, even if I’d rather avoid obligations. It’s not so bad. After all, I’m not saying goodbye forever. And with that certainty, I can dive into my next adventure without any worry. Because, deep down, I might already know that Augsburg is a place I’ll want to return to and stay a little longer. At least maybe.

Men of Culture

When a brave adventurer has spent the entire day climbing mountains, recovering treasures, and battling giants, while trying to keep every single one of his limbs attached to his body, there are three things that drive him to look forward to the next day: Beer. Meat. And sex. After all, he’s got tough memories in his head, hard-earned coin in his pocket, and an even harder erection in his pants. And he needs to deal with these potential problem-makers as quickly as possible, so they don’t lead to his downfall in the long run. The only question is: Which establishment will help him the most in this delicate matter for the least amount of money?

Stunk and Zel are two prime examples of these now not-so-theoretical fortune hunters. For the jaded human and the high-spirited elf, real life begins when they step onto the streets, now aglow with the city’s colorful neon signs, after a tingling brew at the Ale & Eats inn, run by the ever-bubbly bird lady Meidri. From there, they can slip into the well-oiled, frequently used orifices of willing prostitutes. After all, there are plenty available here, in every conceivable shape, color, and function imaginable. One day, they rescue the angel Crimvael from the clutches of a wild monster and introduce the innocent soul to the pleasures of jolly light girls.

I enjoyed Interspecies Reviewers more than I expected. Stunk and Zel are two lovable, horny guys who want to mount anything that breaths. Their boundary-pushing sexcapades are so colorful, amusing, and over the top that I’d love to see a second season. But for various reasons, it will likely never happen. So I have no choice but to close my eyes, have a few warm thoughts, and imagine myself joining Stunk and Zel's illustrious troupe, about to get down and dirty in the nearest fantasy brothel. I'm even thinking about getting the manga, just because I want to know which brightly lit establishments my testosterone-fueled friends will end up in next.

One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Treasure

I pride myself on having excellent taste when it comes to cultural offerings. The more East Asian indie films from the late nineties I watch, the more superior I feel to the world out there. Although I often have no idea what exactly I’ve just gotten myself into, I like to compare it to jazz: the more I think of tortured cats when I listen to it, the more profound, creative and adult it must be. As long as I’m consuming something that at least gives me the feeling that I’m witnessing something higher, I’m happy. Maybe if I’m able to fully understand Hideaki Anno’s psychological drama film Ritual someday, I’ll become some kind of holy cinephile god - who knows.

However, there are also evenings when I suddenly find myself in front of one or two reality TV shows on Netflix because my friends wanted me to watch with them how the singer from the band Tokio Hotel, you may still know them from songs like Monsoon, Don’t Jump, and... surely another one, getting fucked up at the Oktoberfest, eats curd balls at his mom’s, and drives through the desert with his twin brother in a camper van. The fun went on for eight episodes. At the end I wasn’t much wiser than before, quite the opposite in fact, but at least there was delicious Hwachae with watermelon, mango, and some undefinable goo to eat in the meantime.

I more or less secretly hope that there will be a second season of the series, after all, I’ve invested time in it now, which should have paid off. Will Bill and Marc ever become a couple? How much alcohol can the average Kaulitz brother take in a day without collapsing? And do I have to listen to a certain podcast to keep up to date and because I may have promised someone without really thinking about the consequences? I’ll probably never know. Trash television is a welcome change for my constantly stressed brain. Because sometimes it’s quite a good idea to dive into completely irrelevant parallel worlds with even more irrelevant protagonists in them.

War in Wonderland

When I think of online role-playing games, I picture a fantasy world filled with dragons, magic, and knights, featuring forests, ice, and lava caves. In this world, I spend months slaughtering rats and bugs as an underdog, just to have a chance at emulating the veterans in their glittering armor. A tyrannical empire on the far side of the continent is plotting to take over the world with monsters and machines. Alongside a busty blonde, a yellow bird, and generally bored people who also pay ten bucks a month, I try to stop this threat by swinging my sword, learning spells, and hiding behind my shield when things get too intense.

I find myself in the Sultanate of Ul’dah. Venturing outside the city, I take on tasks from residents that lead me to a nearby mine, a small train station, and a spooky graveyard. That’s when I see them - the refugees who managed to flee from the so-called Garlean Empire. And while I merrily slaughter monsters, accompanied by orchestral background music, with nothing but my next piece of golden armor or diamond sword in mind, these people, who have lost everything, who had to flee from a fanatical nation that holds nothing sacred, and who are now crammed together, homeless and hopeless, are watching me from all sides.

Collect ten marmot steaks, forge three storm blades, catch eight navigator’s daggers - that’s probably all some players take away from Final Fantasy XIV. And just because I bought a refugee a meal in a video game, it doesn’t mean I’ve really achieved anything. When I finally stand at the gates of the Garlean Empire, armed with shiny armor and a gigantic weapon, everything happens quickly. I’m thrown into the catacombs with a motley group of fighters and mages. A huge machine attacks us. Bored, we beat on it for a quarter of an hour. It explodes. The end. If only saving the world and solving the refugee crisis were that easy in real life.

Do You Wanna Play a Game?

As someone who typically enjoys gaming with a controller in hand or a keyboard under his fingers, sitting in front of a screen, and snacking while exploring old ruins, bustling towns, or enchanted forests with my illustrious group of virtual adventurers, I’ve found myself more frequently gathered around a table with others in recent years, passing balls, cards, and dice. Whether playing for drinks, stakes, or simply for pride, with the right group, a fun evening was always guaranteed. Together, we played through Poker, Tac, and Dungeons & Dragons, held competitions, and sometimes even invented our own rules to make the games more interesting.

It’s amazing how distinct traits of individual players emerge when they’re placed in a group, seated around a table, and given the chance to win a round or two. They love psychology, fantasy, or social justice and show this more or less consciously in their actions. Some analyze every strategy in great detail, while others dive into the chaos with a naive Leeroy Jenkins mindset. Some try to assist their rivals when they sense unfairness, while others show no mercy. Some lose interest the moment they sense they won’t win, while others persevere until the bitter end. The more distinct my opponents’ characteristics, the more interesting the game becomes.

The game nights I’ve spent with friends have also taught me a lot about myself. For one, my ambition is heavily tied to my mood. When I’m in a good mood, it’s easier to accept losses and celebrate wins. I’ve also realized that the conversations during the games mean more to me than the games themselves. The dialogues that arise are things that might otherwise go unspoken. And finally, I’ve learned that I really hate Tac. It’s just a complicated version of Ludo with cards, for whatever reason. But despite that, I’m grateful to the wonderful people who have introduced me to a world of tabletop gaming that’s so different from my usual digital realm.

Adventures on the Sand Planet

Green Legend Ran is one of those anime that rarely appears on cult classic lists published by random mainstream nerds on dusty internet forums. Sure, titles like Akira, Spirited Away, and Perfect Blue are always mentioned, but Green Legend Ran has mostly remained a niche title - quite unjustly so. In fact, it’s one of the few films I ordered as a video home system cassette from a print catalog, alongside El Hazard: The Magnificent World and a music video tape of Bubblegum Crisis. For whatever reason. I actually wanted to get the infamous otaku documentary, but I was too young at the time, as it could only be ordered if you were eighteen or older.

The movie is set on a post-apocalyptic Earth that has become a vast desert following an alien invasion. The attack caused massive climate change, wiping out the oceans and rain. Humanity was already ruining the environment, making some sort of doom inevitable. It’s a theme echoed in other environmentally focused anime, such as Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water, and Future Boy Conan. Green Legend Ran features beautifully crafted characters striving for happiness in the wake of extinction. What begins in a dusty shanty town quickly turns into an epic journey through deserts, forests, and holy cities.

The film bursts with brutal action, cheeky nineties humor, and even a gently touch of romance. Of course, Green Legend Ran can be viewed as a metaphor for the environmental catastrophe we, as a species, are undoubtedly heading toward. Were the aliens summoned by Earth to prevent humanity from causing further destruction? Who knows. If you enjoy adventure-packed anime with colorful characters, gigantic sandships, religious fanatics, and a bit of blood and boobs, you’ll have as much fun with Green Legend Ran as I did. And who knows? Maybe the movie will end up being a not-so-far-fetched future scenario for our real world.

How to Cook for Forty Humans

I enjoy cooking with others because I love combining good food with even better company. Of course, I don’t do this with just anyone, but with people who are either close to my heart or just kinda hot. We go to the nearest store together, decide what to prepare while browsing the colorfully stacked shelves, pick out fresh, delicious ingredients, and then head home with our jam-packed bags. There, we chop vegetables, fry fish, meat, or tofu, and toss some noodles into a pot. Meanwhile, we listen to the latest playlists on Spotify, chat about the ups and downs of life, and eagerly anticipate the upcoming feast, enjoying some fizzy drinks along the way.

The real fun begins once the cooking is done. Whether there are two, three, or ten of us around the table, we take a moment to look at each other before diving in, filling our plates with salmon, salad, and summer rolls. Conversation flows freely as we talk about the world and its wonders, big and small, or relax with a Netflix show or two. And if we’re not in the mood for the inevitable clean-up afterward, we simply open a delivery app and save ourselves the hassle, scrolling through pictures of pizzas, sushi, or stir-fried noodles. An hour later we sit on someone’s bed, enjoying some delicious Pad Thai, a cute anime, and some human connection.

Sure, I don’t always need company when I’m eating - whether it’s a carefully crafted meal or a quick snack. Sometimes, I sneak into the supermarket next door in the evening, grab some nearly expired nigiri at half-price, and hope the salmonella gods spare me again, as I wash it down with a bottle of Diet Coke. Dessert might be a handful of cornflakes that I nearly choke on because a Zelda Let’s Play distracted me from chewing. It can be quite relaxing to spend an evening like that now and then, but I shouldn’t rely on this so-called lifestyle all the time, because, as the saying goes, Food tastes better when shared with friends.

Something Beautiful Is Going to Happen

Disco Elysium by Robert Kurvitz takes place in an universe that is raw, merciless, and devoid of empathy. In an era of political upheaval, where the survivors of a brutal war are still wiping the blood from their faces, everyone is searching for the remnants of happiness. Detective Harrier Du Bois, known simply as Harry to his few friends and many enemies, wakes up one morning in a run-down seaside hotel with no memory of his past or the world around him. Alongside his temporary partner, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, Harry has been called to the once-idyllic seaside village of Martinaise to solve the gruesome murder of a cocky soldier.

The dilapidated world of Disco Elysium is filled with fascinating stories, perspectives, and characters. The game feels like a talkative novel that pulls me in and overwhelms me with its never-ending chronicles. Whether I guide Harry through the mystical church, the small convenience store, or the desolate swamplands, the history of a place that shouldn’t even exist begins to unfold. Disco Elysium thrives on its freedom of choice and the unpredictable nature of chance. This freedom starts before Harry opens his eyes and continues until the bitter end, when I realize the path I’ve taken, unaware of what I may have missed. But by then, it’s already too late.

Harry’s case is a quest for self-discovery, disguised as a crime adventure. Do I confront the town’s inhabitants as a drunk bigot? An all-knowing philosopher? Or a charming rogue? I must forgo distractions and become one with the living painting that unfolds on the screen. I have to become Harrier Du Bois. Disco Elysium is an experience unlike any other in both form and intensity. Although Martinaise represents only a fraction of the world shrouded in the ever-encroaching fog, I can sense the drama hiding just beyond my reach. With each conversation, each question, and each new idea, I inch closer to this epic, but I’ll never be able to fully grasp it.

An Evening With Friends

Before we part ways for a while due to our upcoming semester abroad, I spent a few memorable evenings with my friends. Investing quality time with people I care about is incredibly important for maintaining mental stability and avoiding the depressive phases that tend to creep in when I’m left alone with my thoughts for too long. I’m someone who only understands how much I care about certain people once they’re gone. That’s why I’m a little afraid that I might only realize too late how important the network of friends I’ve built over the past few years is to me - as soon as I step off the plane without anyone else on the other side of the world.

We annoyed neighbors during gaming competitions, sweated up stairs during movings, devoured Asian delicacies on movie nights, flirted in beer gardens and ice cream parlors, emptied cold drinks by rivers and lakes, and fought monsters, priests, and potential murderers during game nights, pen-and-paper sessions, and mystery dinners. There were also afternoon coffee parties and bar visits at the city’s trendiest spots, with deep conversations about life, love, and death. I spent as much time as possible with other human beings, draining my social battery to the max. But it was worth it, because I knew our window of opportunity would very soon close.

I know myself. It can be dangerous for me to cram too many appointments into a short period of time. That usually ends in temporary burnout, leaving me unable to exit my apartment for days, weeks, or even months - and during those tough times, not even my antidepressants help. But just before my semester abroad and the impending flight to Japan, I didn’t have the luxury of pacing myself. Sometimes life gets in the way, and you either seize the moments that come with it - or simply miss them for good. I’m glad I had the strength to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way. In the end, I have no regrets when it’s finally time to say goodbye.

Cute Girls Doing Cute Things

Kaos doesn’t have it easy. Not only does the teenage manga tryhard look like a primary school student and have no friends besides some curious animals she meets on her way home, but she’s just learned that her four panel artworks came last in a survey among national comic book fans. Before Kaos considers hitting up with Truck-kun to finally end her misery, her editor suggests she move into a dormitory for manga artists to improve her creative skills and perhaps participate a bit more in social life. Before Kaos knows it, she becomes part of a quirky crew of fanatical artists who all share one weeby goal: to achieve their big dream of a career in manga.

In the anime genre Cute Girls Doing Cute Things, the name says it all. There are no epic adventures, devious villains, or hard-to-guess plot twists. These comfy slice of life stories revolve around cute girls doing cute things - nothing more, nothing less. They go out for ice cream, chat at school, hang out in parks, visit bathhouses, and encourage each other in tough moments so they don’t give up. Shows like Comic Girls are pure balm for the soul when the world feels too chaotic, stressful, and overwhelming. Life can be a real jerk sometimes, but in these colorful fantasy universes, every challenge can be solved with a little courage, fun, and good friends.

In the style of K-On!, New Game!, and Non Non Biyori, the different characters in Comic Girls complement each other, growing stronger together. Little Kaos meets the energetic Koyume, the tomboyish Tsubasa, the shy Ruki, and the somewhat sinister Suzu in the dorm. Each of them has their own fears, but together they can overcome them and make progress in life. And there’s always something to laugh about, often through awkward or embarrassing situations. When I’m not in the mood for earth-shattering blockbusters, I cozy up with a hot cup of tea and watch anime like Comic Girls, enjoying cute girls doing cute things - nothing more, nothing less.

The Modern Diet

I don’t even know why I’ve been eating less meat lately. The cafeteria serves French fries with ketchup and mayo for a buck. Vegan salami is surprisingly good. And an avocado, hummus, or pickles with a cheese sandwich? The best. My shift away from meat isn’t driven by concern for health, climate, taste, culture, or even the animals. But I can think of reasons not to fill my days with thoughts of roasted pigs, fried chicken, and freshly butchered cows - especially when I can just load up on fruit, vegetables, and grains. I’ve reached a point where coffee is the centerpiece of my diet, and everything else ranks from second to seventh priority.

It honestly doesn’t matter to me whether I’m eating a veal cutlet or some soy-wheat-bean alternative. I even makes me feel superior. When I put my vegan cold cuts on the supermarket checkout conveyor, and the guy behind me has his two-dollar mixed mince, I feel like the more modern person between us. But the main reason is probably that deep down, I’m just a trend follower. Repeat something often enough, and eventually, I’ll buy into it. When I watch footage from grim slaughterhouses where chickens are trampled, piglets are castrated, and cows are mistreated, I think: Maybe it’s time for more cucumbers, tomatoes, and potatoes to suffer.

I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan. I consume milk, cheese, butter, yogurt, eggs, honey - anything that comes from animals ends up in my mouth. And I eat, and love, fish. Salmon, pike perch, dorado, trout, halibut, herring, scampi, tuna, clams, crabs, eel, squid, cod, mackerel, oysters, shrimp, and sardines. As I write this, I’m munching on a more-or-less healthy cheese sandwich with the last vegan salami slice I had in the fridge, topped with some mayo. Maybe this is the start of some life-altering journey. Perhaps one day, I’ll evolve into a higher being who lives on nothing but sunlight, air, and coffee. Only then will I finally be content with myself and the world.

Terror of the Underworld

When Arano steps out of the station, his fate is already sealed. The young man of few words came to Tokyo to chase his dreams: he wants knives to rain down, preferably into the hearts of the yakuza, whom he inexplicably hates. Caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs, Arano befriends club owner Kamijo and skater Alice, joining their chaotic world. But the bonds he forges are soon torn apart by greed, revenge, and arrogance. Pornostar is a visually stunning mixture of drama, thriller, and gangster film, drenched in fake blood and sprinkled with a touch of love story, all set against the restless backdrop of the Japanese capital on the verge of the millennium.

Everything in Pornostar unfolds so viscerally that you almost feel like you're in the room, witnessing lives snuffed out one after another. Arano’s motive to rid the world of the yakuza is hinted at but remains elusive. Kamijo’s fatal step into the underworld is as casual as Arano’s final encounter with Alice, who might have been his escape from the violent fantasies of bloody knives. But, to be honest, I don’t want these characters to find happiness. They've chosen to play this deadly game of violence and may even deserve Arano as their vengeful angel. Yet with his first murder, even Arano plunges into an abyss from which there is no escape.

Toshiaki Toyoda’s Pornostar reminded me of Hideaki Anno’s Love & Pop, released the same year. Both directors employ a raw, almost documentary-style of shooting, though the two films actually are two sides of the same coin. One side is filled with mischievous schoolgirls, the other, well, with corpses. If you watch Pornostar expecting any kind of satisfaction, inspiration, or even happiness by the time the credits roll, you’ll be disappointed. I could almost wish for one or two characters to experience their own Grand Summer of Love in Fiji, sliding blissfully into the year 2000. But, as the Bible already says: For all who take the sword will perish by the sword.

The Empty Heart

I can make friends with many people in a short time. Regardless of the place, the situation, or the person, I can be funny, captivating, and open-hearted, as if we’ve known each other forever. I share intimate stories and secrets, confess my biggest sins and fears, and make them feel understood. I’ll go to great lengths, no matter how difficult, to make them happier just by having met me. I used to take pride in my ability to shut down my shyness, lethargy, and social anxiety, transforming into the opposite - doing the bravest, craziest, and most likable things without overthinking. It allows me to connect with people who would otherwise remain distant.

But I’m a ghost, an empty heart wrapped in flesh without any empathy. The only reason I make friends so easily is because, to me, they mean nothing. And if I do develop a crush on someone, I’ll analyze her intensely, trying to understand the maddening allure, only to lose interest and drop her like a hot potato once I’ve figured her out. I drain people emotionally and then move on, like an unscrupulous wanderer, partying with those around me one moment and vanishing the next when no one’s paying attention. I wonder if I’m just a shapeshifter, echoing whatever gets me closest to my current target - whether that’s their favor, their thoughts, or their body.

Maybe I’m just Frankenstein’s monster, pieced together from words I once heard someone I admired say. I pretend to be human, but I’m nothing more than a parasite, feeding on the fears, dreams, and problems of others. Like a predator, I pounce on the first person who crosses my path, tear them apart, and feast on the remains. But the satisfaction is fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it arrives. Nothing can fill this void inside me, especially not someone who only wanted to be loved, held, or saved, and is now little more than a vague memory in the wake of my bloodlust. Then I move on to the next pretty face, hoping that this time, things will be different.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Walking

I love walking. Drop me anywhere on earth, point me in a direction, and I’ll start walking. And when I say walking, I don’t mean jogging, running, or sprinting, but the most relaxed form of movement: strolling. There was a time when my daily step count hovered in the one to two-digit range, but I’ve steadily raised that limit. Three digits became four, then four turned into five. Who knows, maybe five could even reach six, if that’s humanly possible. I now easily manage the completely arbitrary figure of ten thousand steps a day, originally recommended by a Japanese company for marketing purposes. These days, I average around twenty thousand steps.

My success is built on boredom, routine, and distraction. After all, I have nothing better to do, I only stick with things when I’m used to doing them, and I can only maintain something if my mind is occupied elsewhere. When I engage in real sports, like jogging, every single second feels like agony, and I secretly hope a confused hunter will mistake me for a deer and put me out of my misery. But when I walk, I’m surprised to find that I’ve been at it for two, three, sometimes four hours without even realizing it. I drift through towns, across fields, and along lakes, passing cars, people, and the tempting smells of cafés, boutiques, and kebab stands.

I repeat this routine every single day, like a robot. And it works. I enjoy the variety of my route. I know where I can rest, where I can get Wi-Fi, and where the toilets are along the way. This certainty is something that people like me, who might be mentally disturbed, need. While I’m here preaching the gospel of walking, I’m just trying to say that if you want more exercise in your life, find something that doesn’t bore or frustrate you. And now, I’ll slip into my worn-out sneakers, put on a five-hour podcast about the best Super Nintendo games, and head out into the world like Hänschen klein. If I do get hit by a bus, at least I’ll die doing something I love.

Is Beer Art?

Every semester, the Werkschau is the grand finale at the Faculty of Design. At this vernissage, students from Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg present their final projects from all areas of analog and digital art. From photography, books, and drawings to computer games and interactive installations, everything that’s new, cool, or just fun is included. There’s also live music, delicious food, and plenty of refreshing drinks, along with many familiar and unfamiliar faces who don’t want to miss out on the hustle and bustle. And if that’s not enough, you can dance into the morning at the after-show party in a nearby club.

I personally had my hands more than full at this year’s Werkschau. Not only was I a member of the generally stressed team that organized this illustrious event, but I also presented my short film Into the Woods, which had previously premiered in a museum. Additionally, I spoke to fellow students about their entrepreneurial plans after graduation for my work at the start-up incubator Funkenwerk, the central contact point for innovative ideas at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg. I even stood behind the bar as a member of the student council to ensure that everyone stayed hydrated in the sunny weather - mostly with beer.

The end of the vivid exhibition also marked the end of my fourth semester at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg and heralded my temporary farewell. It’s amazing how much mental stress built up over the past few weeks and has now disappeared in one fell swoop. I will spend the next month and a half organizing all the necessary preparations for my upcoming semester abroad in Japan. I need to sublet my apartment, finalize the last necessary documents, and attend a farewell party or two before most of my friends disperse into the big wide world. So long, my beloved university. We will see each other again next year.

The Illegal Girl

My collection of Japanese indie movies has grown considerably in recent years. What I appreciate most are the quieter slice-of-life titles that provide intimate insights into the small and large everyday problems of East Asian inhabitants. It doesn’t matter whether the stories take place in the colorful, vibrant streets of Japan’s big cities or among the mountains, lakes, and valleys of rural areas. Of course, the more I feel connected to the protagonists and their experiences, the more the films resonate with me. As Philip Pullman said, After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.

Last night, I watched Emma Kawawada’s My Small Land. It’s about a girl named Sarya, whose parents are Kurdish refugees from Turkey living in Japan. She pretends to be German to her friends because she has had better experiences with this than with the truth. While her father works, Sarya looks after her younger siblings and contemplates her future, as she will soon be going to college. An intimate relationship develops with her colleague Sota, and her feelings become increasingly clear. Sarya wants a completely normal life. When her father’s application for asylum is rejected, the world she has worked so hard to build begins to crumble.

My Small Land is a haunting movie about the balancing act of a young refugee caught between two worlds, searching for her own. As the story progresses, I felt more intensely the inner turmoil pushing Sarya to her emotional limits as she tries to save her siblings from the fate that lies before them. Sarya’s life becomes a gauntlet of cultural constraints, social circumstances, and her own dreams. My Small Land depicts the sacrifices people make to avoid being broken by reality. After watching it, I realized once again how much my privileges protect me from these challenges and the hard decisions that I’ve been able to avoid - at least so far.

Pen and Paper

I embrace my nerdy side not only through my limitless Japanophilia, which manifests in an arguably unhealthy consumption of anime, manga, dramas, books, and pop music I can’t even understand, but also through my love of geeky tabletop role-playing games. In this exciting fantasy realm, I navigate enchanted kingdoms as a magical dragon warrior, explore small towns overtaken by Cthulhu’s monsters as a clumsy policeman, and venture through enemy spaceships as a trigger-happy hophead. Tabletop role-playing games are like a carefree vacation for my brain, offering a chance to let loose and try things I (probably) wouldn’t dare to do in real life.

A couple of friends and I have been members of a role-playing club for some time now, where we more or less regularly experiment with different scenarios, characters, and rulebooks. From fantasy to science fiction to cyberpunk, there’s nothing we wouldn’t dare to try. Personally, I prefer the bloody horror one shot adventures, where we slip into the roles of unsuspecting citizens who roam through abandoned settlements, haunted mansions, and cursed cathedrals, only to face crazy cultists, hungry vampires, and, in the last dungeon, an overpowering deity and, in the best-case scenario, be torn to shreds by it. After all, survival is only for cowards.

I’ve wanted to try tabletop role-playing games for a long time after hearing about them in various podcasts, YouTube videos, and not least in Stranger Things. So, I’m thrilled to have found other people who are just as eager to dive into other worlds and let their imaginations run wild. Where else can you try to ride angry unicorns, shoot the newly born Antichrist, or drown a doomed metropolis in smelly feces to perhaps save it from its fate, only to realize in the end that all these ideas were rather semi-smart? Exactly. When I’m on my semester abroad, we’ll try to hold the sessions online. And maybe I’ll find a group in Japan that’s keen to play, too. Who knows.

Public Viewing

Anyone who knows me even a little bit understands that soccer doesn’t interest me in the slightest. During some World Cups, I am a vague fan of the Japanese national team, but only to the extent that I follow their wins and losses from the sidelines. I generally have little interest in spending several hours watching others compete in sports unless they are characters in an anime or manga to whom I have formed an emotional attachment. In the end, my favorite soccer team remains the Kickers around Kakeru Daichi, even though they only know about winning tournaments from hearsay. But at least they scored a goal against the Falcons once. Yeah.

Despite my general disinterest in any ball sports, I went to a public viewing event in the city center on Friday night with some friends because Germany was playing Spain in the last sixteen round of the European Football Championship. As we all know, our national team lost, but I doubt anyone there cared less about that than I did. So why was I there anyway? Because I realized that it’s essential to socialize regularly, especially when you’re hanging out with people you know, like, and can have fun with. The reason for getting together becomes secondary. It’s much more important to feel connected to others - and eat some snacks while you’re at it.

The time I can spend with these people is finite. And that’s not just because of my own mortality, but because we’ll soon have to say goodbye to each other as the semester abroad is just around the corner. Mine in Japan doesn’t start until the fall, but others will be leaving in a few weeks to explore the world. From Spain to Canada to South Korea, everything is included. We won’t see each other again until next spring. That’s why I’m trying to spend as much time as possible with my friends before our schedules scatter us in all directions. And that, in turn, means that I even watch soccer with them, despite my interest in it being around freezing point.

My Heart Is a Ghost Town

Although I’ve always considered myself a global cosmopolitan who has long since cut ties with German pop culture, Paula Hartmann’s Kleine Feuer has been my most-listened-to album over the past few months. There were days when nothing else played in my AirPods all day but these 15 songs, from beginning to end, over and over again, morning, noon, and night. Others see ghosts, I only see you, Paula whispers to herself without any empathy. So long shadows with so little light. You send a smiley face, trap doors open. My heart is a ghost town and you are the ghost. The wine at two makes me cry again at three, then I fall asleep.

Paula’s apathetic voice and the bleakly pulsating beats are the anthem of my default emotional state, which I can only escape when I’m with other people, and which I fall back into as soon as I’m alone. The Berlin singer comments on the world I’m trapped in on solitary evenings. Wish we could talk to each other, wish us one last summer. Hear my friends say: ’Everything will be fine one day.’ As long as you swim through the rain and thunder. Where’s our happy home? I’ve forgotten where I live. Listen to our last notes, otherwise silence on my phone. Share no more songs, share no more smoke. Share the stars and the moon.

I like tracks that I can listen to in the background, but also immerse myself in. Paula’s music covers me like a blanket and reminds me that other people feel the same way as I do. The cord of my hoodie tastes like fall and the first birds are screaming in pain. The colorful ravens put on their black coats. A grandma behind every windowsill. The first bus wipes me up and then breathes me out. A brake light beacon in the exhaust, rusty leaves on cobblestones. A quick thought about you and suddenly gravity has me again. Kicks my legs, fall down and break. Your roof turns gray walls into a house. In it, we exchange disappointments for a lifetime.

Hollywood’s Calling

My favorite project of the semester, which is slowly coming to an end, was a short film I created for the compulsory elective course Motion Graphics. The topic was Young People and Old Trees. While my fellow students focused on animations to complete the task, I insisted on making a real film and was allowed to do so. After all, I had always wanted to do something like this. So, I grabbed a good friend of mine and we went to the nearest forest together to shoot Into the Woods. I can confidently say that the movie is an absolute masterpiece, and I’m expecting a call from Hollywood any second now to become the next world’s most famous director.

The short film is about a young woman who embarks on a journey into the depths of the forest to meet her destiny. I aimed to combine the flair of The Blair Witch Project with the aesthetics of David Hamilton. The piano music, which I composed while tapping away on my keyboard, is intended to give the story an ominous touch. The countless retro filters I applied to the videos provide the whole piece with a dreamy feel. Incidentally, the ending features a computer-generated imagery firework that makes even Michael Bay look outdated. I really enjoyed the shooting, even though the model caught eight ticks in the process. Suffering for the sake of art.

Into the Woods premiered in a museum last weekend, and interested viewers asked me afterward whether the young woman survived, what the fire meant, and if the movie was an allusion to the climate crisis we’re currently in. I replied that I would answer all their questions in the upcoming second part, Into the Woods 2: Revenge of the Trees. Finally, I’ve acquired a taste for chasing nude girls through nature in front of my camera. Fortunately, I’ve received a bunch of requests from potential models who would like to participate. So, you can look forward to my next magnum opus, which will be shown in an artistic, or adult oriented, movie theater near you.

Chaos Nation

I love dystopian movies. Children of Men, The Road, Snowpiercer - the more hopelessly the future is depicted, the happier I grin. Classical psychoanalytic theory would attribute my passion for the end of the world to the death drive, the urge for doom and destruction. This concept was first proposed by the Russian psychoanalyst Sabina Spielrein in her essay Destruction as the Cause of Coming Into Being and later expanded upon by Sigmund Freud in Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Personally, however, I believe I am simply fascinated by chaos because my life is a minefield of self-imposed rules, and I need confirmation that abandoning them would lead to anarchy.

Last night, I watched Alex Garland’s Civil War starring Kirsten Dunst, Nick Offerman, and Cailee Spaeny. In the dystopian thriller, the President of the United States illegally secures a third term in office, plunging the country into another civil war. A ragtag group of journalists embarks on a dangerous road trip to conduct one last interview with the fascist Donald Trump lookalike before the rebel army reaches the White House to end the man-made horror and restore democracy to the deeply divided nation. But between them and the most powerful man in the world lies a mayhem universe full of racist lunatics, mindless soldiers, and creepy murderers.

The mental appeal of Civil War lies in the increased probability that the world it depicts could become reality with just a few wrong decisions. Many inhabitants of the land of opportunity already yearn for anarchic freedom and want to turn the United States of America into a lawless theme park where anything deemed unpatriotic, or just Mexican, can be shot at. Perhaps Civil War is not just a glimpse into the future but into our present. And because this idea is only exciting until it comes true, next time I’ll prefer watching another unrealistic disaster movie. Preferably something with zombies, asteroids, or ravenous sharks that live in tornadoes.

Too Many People

A few friends and I were out and about at the Augsburg Summer Nights over the weekend. For a few days, the city center transforms into one big party with all kinds of music stages, food stalls, and even a silent disco. But before we threw ourselves into the thundering crowds of the Bavarian town, we chilled out in a pal’s garden right next to the hustle and bustle, treated ourselves to a few cool drinks, and shared some funny life stories. There, I met an amusing sports student whose chaotic love life sweetened my evening, and my psychologically quite committed playmate, with whose help I became the undisputed king of a certain board game.

Unfortunately, I have to say that I didn’t really enjoy the Augsburg Summer Nights - unlike my friends. There were just far too many people crammed into one place. I couldn’t enjoy the various music performances or have a bite to eat in peace. Everyone transformed into a huge ocean of bodies and I felt like I was drowning right in it. I was glad when I finally stepped out of the barrier into the airy freedom again and took a few breaths without being pushed around by a crowd. The first thing I did with my newfound freedom was grab an ice-cold Coke Zero from a nearby convenience store and watch the colorful and very loud turmoil from afar.

This experience made me realize once again that although I don’t mind lots of people coming together in one place, I only enjoy it if they move in one direction as quickly as I do. That way, I can simply glide through them like some kind of slippery fish, as I do it in big cities like New York, Tokyo, or even Berlin. For the fun part, however, such events are not really for me. I prefer quieter house parties where I can talk, drink, and dance with the guests without getting run over by a horde of drunken revelers. But after all, everyone has a different idea of fun. And I don’t judge if others had a nice evening or two at the Augsburg Summer Nights. You do you.

No Part of My Life

It’s an afflicting feeling to know people with whom I once felt very close, but who are no longer part of my life. It’s not as if they’ve moved away, disappeared, or even died, but our relationship has changed so much from one day to the next that we no longer communicate. Not even when we are literally standing next to each other. Then we ignore one another because that’s what you have to do under these circumstances. And if we would usually have talked, laughed, and shared a few worries, we are now like strangers who happen to be finding themselves in the same place and will soon go our separate ways again without even looking at each other’s faces.

I find this situation particularly difficult at times when I experience something interesting or get exciting news that I would otherwise have liked to share with this person immediately. Until recently, these topics eventually mattered to both of us, or at least we knew that the human being on the other side of the city always had an open ear. But just before I mindlessly reach for my phone to write her an update on my world or record a voice message asking for her honest opinion or valuable expertise, I remember that I’m no longer allowed to communicate with my former friend and have to deal with this current challenge piling up in front of me on my own.

The hole that this person leaves in my heart will close. Her profile photo will slide further down in the messages and, at some point, disappear. Other faces will take her place and talk, laugh, and share some worries with me. I will soon have forgotten this once important character and the melancholy feeling of emptiness that she’s causing. It will be as if she had never existed at all. And then I will no longer reach for my phone to share a part of my life with her, because for a brief moment I forgot that this person is no longer a part of it. But before that happens, I wonder if this gloomy emotion I’m carrying around could have been avoided, or if it was inevitable.

Studying in Japan

The idyllic harbor town of Kumamoto is located on the island of Kyushu in the southwest of Japan and has not only a beautiful castle, an old samurai house, and a colorful landscape garden to offer but also a university that happens to be the partner institution of my college. This means that every semester there is a lively exchange of academics-to-be between these two learning establishments. Some students are sent from Japan to Germany, and some students are sent from Germany to Japan in return. And guess who has two thumbs and is one of the ambitious people sent from Europe’s politically split heart to the Land of the Rising Sun? This guy!

I will be spending the upcoming semester as an exchange student at the private Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I’m going to study creative subjects such as Graphic Design, Photography, and Manga Media in the Department of Design at the Faculty of Art. I will be living in a free dormitory that is only a few minutes’ walk from the university’s campus and available to students from all around the world. The winter semester doesn’t start until October, but I’ll be spending a few weeks in my favorite city of Tokyo beforehand, exploring my old hoods Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara and hopefully seeing some old friends from back then.

The flights to and within Japan and the hotel in Tokyo are already booked. Now I just have to sublet my apartment in Germany and make the remaining travel arrangements so that I’m ready to go to the Land of the Rising Sun for the third time in my life this fall. I should probably use the next few months to improve my Japanese language skills. Otherwise, it could be a bit difficult to communicate with my fellow students and the rest of the locals during my semester abroad in Kumamoto, because I probably won’t get very far with just basics like Hello, Goodbye, and Sorry, but where’s the nearest toilet? See you soon, Japan. I hope you’ve missed me.

Just Fun

I’m not sure if it’s my diet, the sun, or my antidepressants, but lately, I’ve generally been worrying less about my life. Whereas I used to spend weeks, months, maybe even years, doing nothing but creating as many sorrows as humanly possible in my mind, I’ve recently been blessed with a stoic calmness that is almost uncanny. There’s so much free space in my head now, and I can fill it however I want. It’s not as if I don’t care about what happens to and around me, but I take note of it, accept it, grow a little from it, and then continue on my way. Maybe that’s just what you do as some kind of functioning adult - or somebody who pretends to be one.

In the past, even the smallest unforeseeable obstacle would have sent me into acute self-doubt and bottomless panic. But today, I know that difficulties are not only part of life but are essential for me to be a better person tomorrow. And that it is an art to use them to my own advantage. With this knowledge, I don’t waste a second too much on problems that aren’t really problems at all. Not only that: with this newly acquired form of acceptable equanimity, I automatically allow myself to have fun without any, or at least many, regrets. Because when I invest less time in irrelevant conflicts that should be ignored, I have more time for the good things in life.

So I prefer to spend my time with people who also choose to have fun. I don’t care what exactly they understand by this term or why they have decided to do so. Maybe they don’t want to be alone. Maybe they need a distraction from their everyday worries. Or maybe they have simply learned that celebrating the time we spend together has no negative impact on our future. Quite the opposite. Life is too short to spend it only in my own head. It’s always the happiest moments that I like to remember the most. So I try to collect a bunch of them before it’s too late. Because as Frank Ocean once said: Have as much fun as possible! Amen, brother.

Cheers to the House Party

Last night I found myself at a house party in a part of town I haven’t been before, where half the girls in attendance seemed to be called Julia. I like house parties. They’re much more cozy than clubs. And you can have intense conversations there, often with people you’ve just met. The birthday girl had gone to great lengths to make her party pleasant. In addition to champagne, snacks, and suitable music, there was a bowl full of little challenges at the entrance that each guest could complete if they wanted to. My task was to transform myself into a so-called woo girl and to cheer loudly even at the most inappropriate moments.

Between the colorful fog machine, soap bubbles everywhere, and a drying rack turned into a beer pong table, I met new people who sweetened my evening with their stories. A photographer struggling with herself, a psychologist from Vienna, and an artist whose individual skills made a packed balcony roar with laughter. I think it’s important to surround myself with new people and be inspired, guided, and encouraged by their dreams, hopes, and perhaps even worries at times when I seem to be at a standstill, at a loss, or generally thinking too much about the purpose of it all. And house parties are the perfect opportunity to meet just such folks.

As I step outside and board the over-punctual night bus with two of the many Julias, I am glad to have been here today among all the cheerful faces, whose laughter from the bottom of their hearts makes me forget my own sorrows. The evening has shown me once again that this city is full of unique and interesting characters. And it is unfortunately far too easy to overlook them repeatedly in my stressful everyday life as I rush through the big and small streets. But it’s worth stopping, listening, and both hearing their stories and enriching them with my thoughts. I’m already looking forward to the next house party - wherever it may take place.

I am Europe

I voted in the European elections this morning. After I bought a coffee at the nearby coffee shop and went for a walk to the next elementary school, where the voting took place, I chose the Green Party because they most closely represent my political views on environmental protection, digitalization, and human rights. I don’t want to leave Europe to the radical left or the radical right. People who trample on our fundamental democratic values out of greed, ideology, or sheer stupidity must not be the ones who end up destroying our chances of a future worth living. Because tomorrow belongs to those who are committed not to fear, but to hope.

I don’t believe in heritage, tradition, and nationalism. Although I was born in Germany, I do not feel German at all, but as a citizen of the world who is dedicated to the wonders and possibilities of all the different cultures this planet provides. For me, the idea of a unified Europe is the logical step away from restrictive borders and towards an open society characterized by a wide variety of people, cultures, and views. Thanks to the benefits, safeguards, and support of the European Union, I have met countless amazing people from different corners of the Earth that I would never have been able to meet without the opportunities of a united continent.

We should be happy to be part of Europe because it strengthens us financially, socially, and culturally. The European Union must be led by people who have only one goal in mind: To improve our community and the lives of us all. By casting my vote, I have helped to ensure that we are hopefully spared a dystopian future in which radicals, fascists, and populists, under the guise of democracy, aim to undermine and destroy it and our very own existences following thereafter. Committing ourselves to the European idea is the best chance we have of a realistic utopia in this period of human history. We are united in diversity, we are the future, we are Europe.

War in My Head

When I was younger, I used to attribute my emotional shortcomings to being a spoiled only child. I had to be the center of attention in every group I was part of. If that didn’t happen, I would go to great lengths to convince everyone around me that I was the focal point of their otherwise unbearable lives. I was an obnoxious drama queen with a distinct main character complex - or maybe I was just bored as hell. I began to realize that my own thoughts would become my greatest enemy. The constant overthinking about everything and everyone led to a melancholy toward the world and its people. Painful memories gave way to a selfish lack of empathy.

The guilt from poor decisions triggered emotional swings that not only affected me but also those I cared about. I grew afraid of moving forward, knowing that even the smallest steps could end in disaster. My mind became a prison of doubts, loneliness, and self-destruction. Escaping myself seemed impossible. Even the smallest hint of stress, anxiety, or unpredictability would send me spiraling back into old patterns and harmful habits I thought I had left behind. Most of my mental energy went toward resisting the madness that loomed just one wrong thought away. I knew that if I gave in, I would be lost forever - and that wasn’t worth it. At least, not yet.

I’ve come to terms with a bitter defeat in my ongoing battle with my mind and realized that I can’t go on without professional help. Without support, I keep slipping into the same mental loops and faulty conclusions. Then I grow more frustrated, lonelier, and weaker. My doctor has diagnosed me with moderate depression. Starting today, I’ll be taking prescription medication to prevent mental crashes, balance my emotions, and hopefully feel happier. I’ve also been referred to a psychiatric ward for therapy. It’s an option worth trying. I hope these steps will help me lead a somewhat normal life, or at least call a ceasefire in the war raging in my head.

My Britney Moment

I burst through the front door, undress, and toss my clothes onto the bed covered in white sheets and pillows. With a fully charged electric razor in hand, I walk into the now brightly lit bathroom and stand in front of the mirror. A small nudge, and the machine buzzes to life. Anticipation often sets you up for disappointment when it comes to evening plans, but tonight, Alex Turner screams in my ear: Tonight there’ll be some love, yeah, there’ll be a ruckus, regardless of what’s gone before. I place the buzzing razor against my head, and it starts slicing through my hair. Dark tufts fall around me. In a few minutes, I’ll be a new person.

I’m in a constant battle between minimalism, depression, and overthinking, with a healthy dose of laziness mixed in. The same pattern always repeats. I mull over the idea of simplifying my life. The more I think about it, the conclusion is always the same: Sure, why not? So I delete it. Sometimes it resurfaces, but I usually just don’t care, and it fades from my mind, my future, my life. If I don’t immediately regret doing it, I know I made the right choice. Like shaving my head, thinking: This action brings me one step closer to my ultimate self. There must be no more options, just my own unique, individual standard. It’s time to free myself from my doubts.

This is my Britney moment. The key difference is that she did it out of desperation, and I’m doing it as a calculated step in my perfectionist master plan. The freeing sensation I get when running an electric razor through my hair, knowing there’s no going back, is somewhere between orgasm and murder. It’s that good the first time. Afterward, it’ll just become another routine I add to my life. Soon, it’ll be completely normal for me. I look at my reflection in the mirror - no racing heart, no regrets. Just pure satisfaction that I don’t have to worry about this part of my life anymore. And who knows? Maybe Britney felt the same way.

Hope Dies Last

In the distant future, invaders from another world attack Earth, unleashing machine life forms to take over the planet. Faced with this overwhelming threat, humans are driven from their homes and flee to the moon. The so-called Council of Exiles organizes a technologically advanced resistance of android soldiers, attempting to reclaim Earth and secure humanity’s future. To break the blockade once and for all, they deploy a new unit: YoRHa. Meanwhile, the seemingly endless battle between machines and androids rages on in the desolate wasteland. A war that may soon reveal long-forgotten truths about this world and the fate of humanity continues...

Released in the year 2017, Japanese artist and renowned oddball Yoko Taro’s role-playing game NieR Replicant could have easily faded into total obscurity due to its familiar premise. Alien monsters attack Earth, and humanity fights desperately for survival. As if I haven’t seen, heard, and played that scenario a thousand times before... But while I quickly forgot about other works after their completion, even years later I still find myself reflecting on my experience with this stunning sequel to NieR Replicant. The end of the world has rarely felt so radically depressive, hopeless, and philosophically melancholic.

NieR Replicant is an unforgettable experience on many levels. The characters embedded themselves in my emotional core. Keiichi Okabe’s epic music relentlessly crushed every hopeful thought. I sought happiness in a world devoid of hope, only to drown in absolute despair. NieR Replicant delivered this bizarre philosophical journey. Fighting alongside 2B, 9S, and A2 against insurmountable odds, I became part of a story whose true ending seemed to slip further away with each step I took, resisting resolution at every turn. NieR Replicant pushed me to my mental limits, allowing me a glimpse into the abyss of emotional despair.

Blessed Blow

God had the best cocaine. Nothing was as clear as the contents of the transparent bags she carefully placed on the table every weekend. God wasn’t even twenty. She had long black hair and a round face. We called her God because she went to a Catholic boarding school for girls. Since God seemed to like me, I always got to snort for free. That made me feel like a freeloader, so I compensated by paying for her drinks at Bar 25. After a trip to visit her parents, God never returned to Berlin. Rumor had it she smashed a classmate’s head against a sink in the restroom, breaking it. We never heard from God again. That was also the end of my cocaine phase.

For a long time, I believed my drug abuse was responsible for my mood swings. But they persisted long after my last line and still hit me today. Mostly during moments when I was at peace with myself, when I felt grounded, when the world didn’t seem so bad. But the world was bad. It had conspired against me. There was no question in my mind that I was to blame for the misery I found myself in. It was someone else’s fault. Maybe I should have worked harder to convince people of my good intentions. Why had I even bothered to build up my hopes like a fragile house of cards, when it was obvious that the slightest breeze would knock it all down?

These thoughts always hit me hard. Like an enemy who knows me too well, always targeting my weakest points. Because that enemy is me. If I don’t want to listen, I have to feel. It’s my own fault. I might be able to set up mental safety nets that will catch me when these mood swings come for me again. A bag full of comforting thoughts that will protect me from spiraling into the abyss. Truths that still hold up when everything else crumbles into despair. And a solid, unshakable belief in my own value despite my mental struggles. As a person. As a friend. And as someone whose love for myself will one day overcome even my deepest fears.

Cool Guys in Their Hot Rods

There they go, the daredevils in their souped-up death machines. After all, anything goes at the Redline. The biggest racing competition in the universe only happens every five years, and that’s why everyone is out to claim the glory for themselves. While organized crime syndicates and militaristic governments want to exploit the spectacle, the racers are gasping for prestige. Joshua Punkhead, a troublemaker who’s never heard of speed limits and crashes his ultra-tuned car into everything in sight, has just one goal: to win the Redline. But there’s another problem - Joshua’s crush, Sonoshee, is also competing and has no intention of letting him take the victory.

The crowd is shocked when it’s revealed that the race will take place on Roboworld. The militant inhabitants of the planet aren’t thrilled about a bunch of reckless racers making their planet unsafe and potentially discovering their hidden weapons of mass destruction. A game of life, death, and even love unfolds. Redline delivers fast-paced, colorful action from the first second to the last, occasionally pausing just long enough for a breather. Joshua is a likable rogue with his heart in the right place. The other racers and supporting characters offer enough depth, personality, or just pure fun to keep things interesting throughout the movie.

Redline is packed with visual highlights, backed by racy music, bombastic sound effects, and one cool catchphrase after another. As the finale approaches, the screen explodes into a firework display of bright colors. But perhaps it’s this very sense of overload - the feeling that it’s impossible to catch everything in one go - that makes me want to watch the movie again. Redline is anything but boring. Anyone who enjoys cool guys in hot cars and even hotter girls who go the extra mile in every scene will appreciate this gem of an anime. Everyone else can keep cruising through the 20-mph zone in their old Fiat Punto and avoid taking any real risks in life.

A Single Moment

It only takes a single moment and I fall again. If I’ve just felt happy because something worked out the way I wanted, or at least, for once, I had no reason to hate the world and everyone in it, a second later, I plunge back into the same old, worn-out abyss. And each time, it becomes a little harder to climb out. I’m either drenched in the joy of existence, or nothing makes sense, and it feels like it would be better if I disappeared from the face of the earth. How did everything start to suck again when things were going so well just moments ago? It’s black or white, emotional extremes. There’s no middle ground, no safety net. I either soar or I crash.

What I thought was safe, good, and untouched by negative thoughts suddenly comes under scrutiny again. I start to ponder, to doubt, questioning everything I’d once taken for granted. Mistrust wraps itself around me like a heavy cloak, tightening slowly until it presses me to the ground - where I belong. Was that random comment from the girl I like really meant to be kind? The tone seemed too ironic, the look too mocking. Could it be that everything she’s ever said to me or about me wasn’t sincere? Is there any real proof that we get along well? She’s probably just making fun of me. In the end, she’s like everyone else.

Now I have no choice but to get to the bottom of it before it’s too late. Sometimes, this spiral starts when she doesn’t reply to a message that’s totally casual, funny, and not at all laced with self-doubt. Then I’m back on the same rollercoaster ride I’ve been before, stuck in the same thought loops I keep trying to break - unsuccessfully. I take the same mental paths and always arrive at the same realization: I’m not worth it. I’m not worth having friends. I’m not worthy of love. I’m not worth being attractive. I’m not worthy of being taken seriously. I’m not worthy of success. I’m not worthy of equality. I’m not worthy of happiness. Everyone else is. Except me.

Going Places

Although life feels like it will drag on forever, and I’m convinced of my own immortality anyway, a bitter truth hangs over my head like the proverbial sword of Damocles: I will die. I’m not sick, at least I hope not, but the day I die will come, without a doubt. How am I supposed to deal with this bitter realization without slipping into paralyzing apathy or pure panic, weighed down by my weltschmerz? Exactly: I try to make the best of the time I have left on this planet. This resolution doesn’t always work. Sometimes I lie in bed for days, letting life’s opportunities pass me by, like some fool who doesn’t even understand the fear of missing out.

On days when I have enough energy, curiosity, and hope, I step outside my front door and actively face the universe. I want to experience something new: an adventure, fresh faces, or something I’ve never seen before with my own eyes. It doesn’t always have to be a grand event or life-changing moment. Sometimes, giving the small things a chance is enough. I visit an unfamiliar place - a café, a store, or a nearby lake - or strike up conversations with people I’ve just met or haven’t interacted with much before. Sometimes they’re hilarious. Or, I confront problems and fears with new approaches, solving and eliminating them for good.

I’m often so blinded by routine, that I don’t even consider exploring alternatives. Coffee? Black. Sneakers? White. Girls? Blonde. Sometimes, though, I avoid the unfamiliar because I’m afraid that even a harmless choice will plunge me into mental chaos, forcing me to expend significant effort to regain my balance - only to return to the tried and tested. This has happened far too often, and I can’t ignore the risk. But maybe, the one new thing I embrace on a seemingly inconsequential yet fateful day could be the key to a whole new life. Because no matter how small or unimportant it may seem, every possibility carries the potential for something great.

The Death of Social Media

When websites like MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter emerged in the early 2000s, I was fascinated by the possibilities they brought. Whether I was chatting with buddies, flirting with girls, or discussing the latest One Piece episode with other fans, social media turned the internet into a place where strangers could become acquaintances, and acquaintances could become friends. Social media shaped who I am today. Facebook took me to Berlin, Twitter to Japan, and Instagram to America. I reveled in the benefits of this universe, but I watched with regret as these platforms gradually became breeding grounds for hate, ignorance, and depression.

Suddenly, social media was no longer fun. Still, I didn’t want to abandon the dream of a connected world, because there were people on these platforms who meant something to me. For far too long, I ignored my inner voice telling me it was time to say goodbye to the hollow shell that social media had become. Maybe I was just afraid, or perhaps I was hoping I’d find a reason to keep denying the inevitable. But the longer I stayed, the more out of place I felt amid the angry voices, blunt propaganda, and false promises. So, I had only one choice to finally shed this mental burden that had weighed on me for years: delete social media. And now, I’ve done it.

Besides my retreat from social media, I’ve also stopped using emojis in emails, chats, and text messages. I’ve disabled the buttons that let me decorate my thoughts with colorful little pictures on my phone and computer. My words have to stand on their own. And if they can't, then I’ve failed as a writer - and as a decent human being. Of course, emojis serve a purpose. They’re meant to fill the gaps where words fall short. Without them, there will be misunderstandings, arguments, and, ultimately, conflicts. But I don’t care about that. As usual, the world should revolve around me and my decisions, no matter how arbitrary or illogical they may seem.

Unrequited Expectations

I firmly believe that expectations are the root of all disappointment in interpersonal relationships. Expectations will always let me down, no matter who or what they’re directed at. If I assume that someone I care about will act in a way I expect, I’ve already set myself up for failure. There is no exception to this harsh law of life. Even when expectations seem to be met, it’s often an illusion. Why do people I place expectations on end up disappointing me? It’s not that they do it on purpose, they have their own expectations of situations, goals, hopes, and people. They’re playing the same doomed game, just with different players.

They don’t know what’s going on inside me. And they don’t have to, nor do they need or want to. They have their own thoughts and worries, and they’re busy enough with those. So, should I never place any expectations on anyone or anything again? Perhaps. But maybe it’s enough to avoid basing my entire emotional world on those expectations and falling apart when things don’t go as I imagined. I should aim to be strong enough, so grounded in myself, that the actions of others don’t throw me off course. The more satisfied I am with myself, the more I can tolerate not being the focus of others’ attention. And that’s a good thing.

I must be careful not to fall into the same traps as many others who overthink their lives, relationships, and dreams. Unmet expectations can lead not only to disappointment but also to the destruction of impprtant friendships. Unmet expectations offer valuable lessons. They help me reflect on myself and the people around me. Approaching people without expectations allows me to enrich my life with the experiences they trustingly share, without expecting anything in return. I shouldn’t close myself off to this opportunity but approach it with an open heart - even if I may never truly become part of the world of the one I hold those expectations for.

The Boy and the Murderer

Mr. Long is not a man of many words. His skills lie more in a particular kind of craftsmanship. Mr. Long is a Taiwanese contract killer, one who asks no questions when given a place, a time, and a target. Mr. Long does what he has to do. And he’s pretty good at it. Most of the time. However, when a mission to Japan to assassinate a local yakuza boss goes horribly wrong, Mr. Long finds himself stranded in a run-down settlement on the outskirts of a remote town. With only five days to gather the money for his trip home, he unexpectedly receives help from a young boy named Jun and the unsuspecting townspeople who fall in love with his culinary talents.

Mr. Long begins to settle into the unfamiliar surroundings. Jun’s mother, Lily, a woman struggling with heroin addiction, also crosses his path. Through her son, Mr. Long becomes determined to help her, using brutal methods to force her into sobriety. Is it love Mr. Long feels for her? Or is it gratitude for a chance at a new life? Trouble comes when a drug dealer tracks down Lily and, through her, Mr. Long. Despite the inevitable confrontation with his past, Mr. Long finds it hard to abandon the life he’s begun to build. A hitman, once cold and detached, is showered with unexpected kindness and forced to surrender to it.

Hiroyuki Tanaka masterfully blends the ordinary with the unexpected. Mr. Long begins as a glamorously shot, bloody nighttime thriller but transitions into the thoughtful realism of arthouse cinema. The Japanese director has crafted a film that is equal parts amusing, tragic, and shocking. I found myself rooting for a happy ending for Mr. Long, Jun, and Lily - a place where they could live peacefully, away from the world’s cruelty. But just as I allowed myself to hope, the past caught up with them. By the end, I was laughing and crying. When Mr. Long finally gazed out of the café window, I felt grateful to have accompanied him on his tough journey.

Burning Bridges

While you're lying in bed with your boyfriend late at night, watching Netflix, letting him hold you close, and not wasting a single thought on me, I’m standing at a train station after a boring party, in the rain, with two cold McDonald’s cheeseburgers in my bag. I’m waiting for the last train home, only to indulge in the one thing I was determined to avoid: thinking about you. I tell myself I’m a good person - at least, that’s what I cling to, to keep from going completely insane. I don’t want to interfere in someone else’s relationship, no matter how broken or insanely unhappy I imagine it must be. A move like that wouldn’t suit me.

I wouldn’t be the hero rescuing the helpless princess from a painful relationship. I’d be a jerk, convinced that the only way to find happiness is by ruining someone else’s. No one wants to be with someone like that. No one wants anything to do with someone like that. Especially not the girl on the other side of my crumbling world, whose grin I see whenever I close my eyes. Her happiness should be untouchable, even if she’s decided I’m not allowed to be a part of it. So, the only thing left to do is gather what’s left of my sanity and make the one decision worth following: I have to tear down, burn, and blow up these bridges that lead in the wrong direction.

There’s still hope that I won’t drown in my minimalist melancholy for good. This feeling, with a shift in perspective, could turn into a treasure trove of ideas. I need to draw the right conclusions, not cling to outdated thought patterns. Maybe those other kind faces aren’t just empty shells. Maybe one of them can stir the same feelings in me as the slim, black-clad girl with the life-worn white sneakers. Maybe one of them is just as pretty, smart, and mischievous - if only I give her the chance, instead of dismissing it. And if I’m lucky, I might even forget why I was so captivated by that one impudently grinning girl in the first place.

Self-destructive Tendencies

Hello. My name’s Marcel, and my various hobbies include reading, cooking, and sabotaging my own life. Then I chase away friends, place obstacles in the path of my success, and sacrifice myself for irrelevant beliefs. While normal people know when to stop and avoid repeating the same mistakes, I crave unnecessary drama and go the extra mile. All I reap from these self-destructive tendencies are disappointment, anger, and loneliness. The worst part is, I know when it’s better to stay quiet, when a situation doesn’t need to escalate - but something inside me wants to watch my world burn, over and over again.

With this attitude, I’m putting people through pointless tests they can’t pass, just to prove to myself that these friendships were doomed from the start. That I’m better off alone, because relying on others only leads to disappointment. Thanks to my superior mindset, I save myself the time, which I can now spend alone - trapped in my head with no chance of escape. It’s hard for me to tell who’s truly a friend and who just happens to share the same space. Who’s forced to spend time with me but looks for the next chance to get away. And just when I’m surrounded by people to whom I’ve devoted thoughts, dreams, and hopes, I feel alone again.

Why bother making connections if they’re only going to be shallow, collapsing like a house of cards with just a few wrong words? I could save myself the trouble. I shouldn’t set up false expectations, and if I did get disappointed, I’d only have myself to blame. Should I stop people from entering my life and wave them away before they even get close? Since there’s nothing left but to spend some time together and then say goodbye? It’s unrealistic to form friendships with everyone. It’s enough to share a moment, to enjoy each other’s company before moving on. And it’s okay to dedicate thoughts, dreams, and hopes to those fleeting connections.

Welcome to the Club

Each faculty at our university has its very own student council. There is one for computer science, one for humanities and natural sciences, one for architecture and civil engineering, one for electrical engineering, one for mechanical and process engineering and one for economics. And then there's the motley crew that I've been a member of: The Design Student Council. This is where illustrious people from the three degree courses Communication Design, Interactive Media, and Creative Engineering come together to chat about art, events, and life in general over pizza, beer, and music, as well as to have a bit of a rant about the other student councils.

Through the student council, I got to know all sorts of great people from different areas of the university who would otherwise have remained unknown to me and would have continued to pass me by without a greeting in the canteen. Together we organize flea markets, karaoke evenings, and exhibitions, act as contacts for new students, and try to improve university life with our ideas. Sometimes we spend hours discussing grievances at our faculty, sometimes we try to answer the eternal question of how many primary school children we could defeat in a fight to the death. The correct answer, of course, is seven - everyone knows that.

I am very glad that in my first semester I dared to sit down week after week in a room full of people who were becoming fewer and fewer strangers to me, and through this, from my perspective, quite courageous step, I became part of a community that enriched my time at university in many ways. Gradually, more and more of my friends have found their way into the Design Student Council, and thus to free cold drinks, and rumor has it that I have already spent a night or two in our designated room after the evening got a little out of hand. Every faculty at our university has its own student council - and ours is undoubtedly the best.

A Balm for Depression

Sure, sex is great. But have you ever watched all the episodes of K-On! in one sitting, only to feel such a big hole in your heart afterward that you started all over again just to begin filling it? K-On! is pure joie de vivre, a love letter to cheerfulness, the carefree spirit, and the plans and hopes we all had at some point. The anime teaches you what life is truly about - overcoming fears, gaining new experiences, and finding lifelong friends. No matter how much your soul is eaten away by cynicism and general Weltschmerz, after an intense K-On! binge, you’ll feel more content, happier, and more positive toward the entire universe.

Yui’s genuinely carefree attitude rubs off on even the most sarcastic sourpuss. I guarantee it. When she starts high school, she resolves to finally get off her lazy butt and join a club, so she won’t end up as a total loser. But which one? Luckily, the school band is looking for a guitarist. This could be the start of a wonderful friendship and a great music career for Yui. The only problem? She knows absolutely nothing about playing the guitar and has zero stage experience. To make things worse, she gets distracted easily - every time she learns something new, she forgets something else. This is going to be a tough challenge for the rest of the band...

K-On! isn’t an epic saga, far from it. It’s about Yui, her friends, and their shared dream of becoming the best rock band in the world. For those seeking an effective antidote to depression, K-On! is the perfect prescription. With its heartwarming narrative and endearing characters, it reminds us that there is always hope, that brighter tomorrows can be found in good friends, sweet music, and the simple joys of life. So, if you ever feel alone, depressed, and abandoned by the world, watch an episode of K-On! before reaching for the booze, the pillbox, or worse. Then watch another episode. And then another. Until, eventually, you start all over again - forever and ever.

The Wandering Mouth

We’re at a party. Strange and familiar faces hover around us, drinking and shouting. Cheerful music fills the air. The garden where we celebrate is lit up in bright colors. You’re having fun, drifting from one bottle to the next, from one taste to another, from one mouth to the next. People are waiting for you to push beyond the limit. Things are spinning out of control. The mood shifts. It’s no longer fun. The night grows darker. You fall, lying on your back on the grass, laughing with the others around you. Your top has slipped up, exposing more than you realize. I walk over, cover you, and pull you to your feet. It’s hard to tell if you’re laughing or crying.

You try to kiss me. I turn away, pressing your head to my shoulder. I love you very much, I whisper in your ear. Silence. I love you too, you answer quietly. Björk’s voice whispers, Your mouth floats above my bed at night, my own private moon. You nestle your head against mine, the faint smell of beer, salt, and cigarettes mingling in your breath. Hair to hair. Skin to skin. Pulse to pulse. Just because the mind can make up whatever it wants, doesn’t mean that it’ll never come true, won’t ever happen. Please, could I change that? I can feel your body against mine. Just because she can. This moment feels like the most important thing in the world.

Is that the right thing to do? Oh, I just don’t know. You turn toward me, your face close. Let me introduce one to the other. The dream and the real, get them acquainted. Introduce. A mouth to a mouth. Your face becomes mine. I taste your lips, your tongue. Your breath enters me, warm, filled with beer, salt, cigarettes, and a hint of loneliness. The dream and the real, get them acquainted. Maybe hope can win. Can I just sneak up from behind? I plead. Now please, can I kiss her? I shout. Is that the right thing to do? The void answers softly, Oh, I just don’t know. There’s a line there, I can’t cross it. I wake up, am lost, can no longer deny it.

If I Can’t Be a Part of Your World

I can’t always have what I want. My happiness sometimes conflicts with the dreams and desires of others. And it’s not my place to hurt them just because I hold the misguided belief that I must always be the main character in every story. Every so often, I have to accept that I’m just a supporting role, and that someone else is in the spotlight - no matter how hard that is for my ego. Sometimes I’m neither Romeo nor Juliet, but just some fruit seller suffering in the background. When the black-clad, slim, and boldly grinning girl with life-worn white sneakers, whom I like, with whom I want to spend time, share adventures, and create memories, already has someone by her side, the right path is the one that leads away.

Away from her captivating presence, away from her apparent happiness, and away from the slow-burning pain I’ve become too used to out of ignorance and a bit of masochism. My main goal should be to escape the inner urge to cling to the fading hope that, by some miracle defying all logic, I might still win her over - before I cause irreparable damage to myself and to her. Because all that can come from this desperate attempt is anger, resentment, and profound loneliness. And that’s the last thing I want. Unless I’m already lost. But if that’s the case, it’s too late for me and everyone else around me.

I could avoid these emotional scars by following the advice of others: distract myself, talk to the nice but unremarkable faces, and maybe find someone who could capture my emotions just as strongly as the girl I’m trying so hard to win over. But I don’t want that. Because, to me, everyone else is just an empty shell. And while I know that’s not true, it’s easier to cling to that lie and wallow in my self-pity undisturbed. Heartbreak is more bearable when you give up all hope. It’s easier than facing the uncomfortable truth that maybe I’m not even in love with the girl herself, but with the false expectations I’ve projected onto her from the start. After all, what do I really know about her beyond the few stories she’s kindly shared with me and the connections I’ve stitched together in my mind? Nothing. And realizing that is the first step out of my broken head and into the real world.

Art Makes Me Angry

I’m standing in front of a wall. It’s big, bright, and mostly empty. Two framed pictures hang on it. I’m trying to focus as much as possible, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re just a few stick figures drawn on white canvases. They stare back at me, a sun in the corner, some grass on the ground. Everything’s black and white. The gallery owner looks bored, typing apathetically on her iPad. Connoisseurs, patrons, and buyers buzz around me. Art makes me angry. People linger in front of the installations, talking about what they see, discussing, praising, and criticizing. They debate what the artist was thinking with this color, this material, this angle.

While some guy jerks off on a screen behind me, I’m staring at stick figures. The price? Around $2,000. I wonder if it would be worth ripping it off the wall and beating the gallery owner with it until someone answers the one question I have: What? Then I feel like a Fox News viewer who votes for xenophobes but masturbates to photos of his underage niece. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate art turns into a junk food-eating, lettuce-avoiding redneck with a Windows PC at home. They would rather watch soccer than go to a museum, choose sugar over vegetables, beer over wine, and vulgarity over muses. Too stupid for art, too conventional for beauty.

I love the art world. The magazines, the books, the cocktails, the chatter, the prices, and the girls with burlap bags wandering galleries on Sundays. It’s just the art itself I don’t get. But isn’t that the whole point? The people in this parallel universe dress better than most Fashion Week attendees. The big, bright buildings that were once train stations, workshops, or factories now serve as an alternate reality to a world torn by war, hate, and poverty. And they’re beautiful. They flood my mind, energize me, spark memories, joy, and a good deal of hate. Why? I ask myself. How? I wonder. Where? I think. And especially: What are you trying to tell me?

Meeting a Master

This semester, we participated in a workshop with the renowned Hungarian artist István Horkay as part of our Werkwoche at university. His collage posters are famous and have been exhibited in galleries worldwide. In István Horkay’s work, textual significance often appears in varying forms, as contrasting colors emerge on the surface in different areas. His posters are not just experimental - they reflect life itself. It was a wonderful experience to work with István Horkay and his lovely wife, designing pieces under his personal guidance. I created three posters in total, titled The Book of Love, The Bachelor of Arts, and Jazz.

The workshop concluded with an exhibition, held alongside a display of the most beautiful German books. The Werkwoche was a great opportunity to break away from the daily study routine and dive into something new. I look forward to participating again. Additionally, I’d like to share my grades from this semester in Interactive Media studies. In Digital Media Theory, I earned a 2.0. In Digital Accessibility, a 2.7. For the Basics of Software Development, a 3.0. In 2D Animation, a 1.7. In Advanced English Professional Communication, also a 1.7. And for Interface Design, I received a 1.0. I know these grades aren't perfect, but I don’t mind

I’m just happy that I had a fantastic time, met new people, and strengthened old connections. That’s what college is about, at least for me. Next year, I have the opportunity to study abroad and have been asked to choose a university in a country that interests me. After careful thought, I’ve narrowed my options down to Japan, Taiwan, and Lithuania. In a few weeks, I’ll know where my journey will take me. I’d be happy with any of these choices, as each one offers unique opportunities I may never have again. Let’s see where destiny leads me. Until then, I’m looking forward to my fourth semester - new courses, new people, and new adventures. Yeah.

When We Became the Past

No matter how far we may find ourselves, we return home sooner or later. To our city. To a world where time seems to stand still. And we feel superior, because no one here even dared to come close to what we have achieved. The streets of the small community are still the same ones we raced down as kids. We know them inside and out. We still dream of the time when these alleys were the veins of our childish existence. As I walk down the main street, my thoughts drift. They rise above the city, and memories surface everywhere. When I come to my senses again, I stand on a small bridge just outside the city.

We ruled this place. We shook it to its core, making it tremble. We passed through its gates at night; we kissed, ate, fought, cried, came, shouted, laughed, and drank. Loudly. Energetically. Fearlessly. So that we might leave our mark. But our graffiti has faded. Our legends have been silenced. Our markings erased. Time has made us victims. The generation that now wreaks havoc in these streets has no idea of what once took place here. They don’t know what we risked, who we touched, how many enemies we made, or how many friends stood by us. None of it matters to them. They don’t care about our names, our places, our sorrows, or our songs.

And then we realize we have no reason to feel superior. We accomplished nothing. Our memories linger as vague shadows, without effect, without desire. They are proof only that we’ve been replaced - by people who find us irrelevant and now write their own legends in the places where our stories once unfolded. But this generation will also return to this place. And they will realize that none of their actions, no matter how wild, passionate, or dramatic, will achieve eternity. That their life, too, is just a copy of a copy. And that everything falls apart the moment they turn around. All that remains is the dream of doing something no one before us has ever done.

Time to Grow Up

Since I started attending college, my entire circle of friends consists of fellow students. On the surface, that wouldn’t seem like a problem. They’re all great people with their own dreams, hopes, and goals, and I’ve grown close to some of them over time. We’ve partied all night, sunbathed by the lake, cooked meals, danced, played tabletop RPGs, watched old anime, and had deep conversations about the meaning of life. The time I spend with them means a lot to me. But I’m starting to realize that the age difference between us is causing some interpersonal friction. I’m 40 now, and most of them are around 20. Let’s be honest - that’s not a healthy dynamic.

We celebrated my birthday at a trendy city bar a few days ago, and we had a great time. Expensive drinks, loud music, and a few colorful substances. But it didn’t escape me that I was the oldest person there. I couldn’t flirt with any of the girls without feeling like a creep. Beyond that, I generally avoid developing feelings for my fellow students beyond friendship, no matter how much I might want to at times. Otherwise, I’d feel like I was betraying their trust. But since I do miss being in a romantic relationship, I now feel a bit trapped in this adolescent world. Reality is reminding me that I can’t keep hiding in my imaginary shell forever.

It’s time to grow up. I need to expand my circle of friends and meet people who will help me grow, mentally and emotionally. People with whom I can form the intimate connections that aren’t possible in my current environment. Maybe I need to join a book club, hunt for vintage treasures, or volunteer for a cause. Or maybe I should go to places that attract people my age, like jazz bars, horse races, or wine tastings. Or perhaps simply being more mindful and open to new encounters as I move through the world will help. The key is not to get too comfortable with my current situation. Otherwise, I’ll miss out on opportunities that are waiting just out of sight.

Midlife Crisis Outfit

As of today, I am 40 years old. So it’s about time to talk about my midlife crisis. It manifests through constant reflection, waves of depression, and self-destructive tendencies, and externally through the continuous optimization of what I consider my perfect outfit. I’m a firm believer in having a singular look for every occasion life throws at me. While most people wear a variety of outfits, with different colors, styles, and brands, I’ve set myself the goal of finding the ideal piece of clothing for every part of my body. And yes, I know this behavior stems from some glitch in my head. But let’s call it minimalism. That way, I don’t feel completely insane.

I quickly realized that most of my uniform needed to be black. This way, I never have to worry about color coordination. Black always works, looks good, and is incredibly slimming. No other color offers so many wins at once - amazing. Additionally, my outfit has to be affordable, basic, and readily available anywhere in the world. Even if I end up in Guatemala for some reason, I need to be able to replace any worn-out items locally. That’s why I’ve selected a few international brands whose products I rely on to present myself to the world. Of course, I adjust this choice over time - after all, my outfit evolves, just like I do. I’m not dead yet. At least not physically.

Most of my clothes come from H&M. The quality is decent, the price is reasonable, and availability is guaranteed. Their basics aren’t plastered with logos. They’re simple, modern, and well-fitted. So I’ve bought the same black pants, T-shirts, hoodies, sweaters, jackets, underwear, scarves, and gloves multiple times. Wearing too many nameless basics might strip you of character, which is why my cap with the New York Yankees logo is from New Era. And since black looks best with accents, I wear white Nike Air Force 1s with sport socks. The outfit is completed with black Jisco glasses, a vintage Casio watch, and Apple AirPods Pro.

I Lost My Heart in Tokyo

Japan is not only a land of rich cultural traditions, technological achievements, and historical, social, and geographical challenges, but a nation of wonders waiting to be discovered. In recent decades, Tokyo has become a hotspot for pop culture, from fashion to music to art. Kyoto boasts the most beautiful temples, Osaka the most delicious delicacies, and Yokohama the most vibrant nightlife. In anime and manga, wide-eyed space pirates, commanding swordsmen, and brave magical girls come to life. In J-pop and J-rock, both the bright and dark sides of life are sung about. And in novels quiet yet impactful heroes search for happiness.

Japanese pop culture is brimming with love, lust, and passion, exploding in every conceivable direction. Each loud bang brings a new discovery, story, or potential passion to life. I want to celebrate this world of Japanese pop culture - whether it’s fashion, art, music, films, books, games, travel, technology, or food. Whether it’s anime, manga, or J-pop, whether it’s globally known or an eternal insider tip within Japan itself. I’m embarking on a journey into a distant world, one whose energy can be felt, whose courage can be sensed, and whose love can be touched from afar. I want to grasp it, understand it, and hold it close.

I sit in the cockpit with Spike Spiegel, save the world with Asuka Langley Soryu, and wander through ghost-filled forests with Ginko. I dive into the bustling crowd on Takeshita Street in Harajuku, get swept up in the excitement of gamers in front of flickering screens in Akihabara, and sit in a hidden jazz café in Shimokitazawa, listening to the bouncing sounds of Ryo Fukui, Casiopea, and Soil & ’Pimp’ Sessions over a cup of matcha tea. If you enjoy thinking outside the cultural box, are constantly seeking new, exciting, and surprising experiences, and aren’t afraid of losing yourself in a labyrinth of otherness, then you’ve come to the right place.

Beer, Beer, and More Beer

The second semester of my studies in Interactive Media has just come to an end. Officially, it doesn’t finish until the end of September, but with the semester break starting in a few days, I can confidently say that my first year of college is now behind me. At the end of last semester, I shared my exam grades with you, and I’d like to continue that tradition. This time, I earned a 2.7 in Basics of Interactive Design, a 1.7 in Basics of Audiovisual Design, a 2.0 in Basics of Programming, and a 3.0 in Basics of Web Technologies. It’s been a year filled with new people, experiences, and a renewed zest for life.

I’ve spent the year learning, designing, and programming. We made our own films, built machines, created animations, dabbled in various programming languages, and nearly drained the university’s beverage budget - mainly in the form of beer, beer, and more beer. I joined the design student council and a Dungeons & Dragons club, helped out at events both onstage and behind the scenes, and even spent a few nights on campus after missing the last train home more than once. Next semester, we’ll explore elective modules in design, computer science, and gaming, and we’ll have to decide which country to spend our semester abroad in.

I’m leaning towards Japan, Finland, or Estonia. My diverse studies have truly given me, and I’m not exaggerating, a new sense of purpose. A reason to get up early in the morning. I come to campus excited, smiling at familiar faces, ready to embark on new adventures with people I’ve known for a while or just met for the first time. For that, I want to thank everyone who has been part of this journey so far. I’m really glad I decided to apply to the Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg last year - it gave me this incredible opportunity, and I can’t wait to see what challenges await me in the next semester.

The Meaningless Love

As she makes her way home, I shout the first stupid thing that comes to my mind. The black-clad, slim person with the white sneakers, marked by life, turns around once more, grins, shouts back, and raises her hand. The smoke from her cigarette dances in the otherwise clear air. I look after her only briefly, open the heavy glass door, and once again enter the building which is bursting with dreams of strangers and, in the past months, has turned into our refuge from the mostly noisy, chaotic, and abandoned-by-all-good-spirits world outside. There is no worse feeling than being in love with someone I shouldn’t be in love with.

This love has no meaning, no future, and thus no value. I try to find arguments for why it would be much more logical if I had no affection for the impudently grinning girl. But there is nothing to be said for not wanting to dive into this body. How could I resist her sober, disarming, and perceptive charm? She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s sassy. She’s either glowing with energy or apathetically sinking into her thoughts. I collect every new detail about her life, like pieces of a puzzle, which, when assembled bit by bit, create a lovingly decorated and partially scarred treasure map that I can use as a guide to discover ever more adventures, memories, and inspirations.

No matter how meaningful I think my existence is, it’s nothing compared to the shows that are playing out in front of my mind’s eye. There is no worse feeling than being in love with someone I shouldn’t be with. But I’m happy about it. This emotion can turn into a treasure trove of ideas. Meaningless love is a bittersweet gift from which I can gain a lesson about myself and the people around me. And hope, no matter how small it may be, dies last. Sometimes that’s all I need to keep going in this mostly noisy, chaotic, and abandoned-by-all-good-spirits world that is waiting for me out there, in front of these light-flooded halls.

Offensive Openness

To do justice to my offensive openness, I don’t want to withhold from you how I fared in my first semester of the Interactive Media program at Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg. In the Basics of Visual Design course, I passed with a grade of 1.7. In the Basics of Three-Dimensional Design course, I passed with a grade of 2.3. In the Basics of Computer Science major, I passed with a grade of 3.3. In the elective Japanese 1, I passed with a grade of 1.7. In addition, I got a few credits for nude drawing and a trip to the Bavarian Forest. I postponed the exam of Basics of Programming to the next semester because I had not prepared for it sufficiently.

While I’m pleased with the results, I’m also aware that I’ll only be able to master the coming years if I’m able to learn better. I’ve also realized what degree I’ll be pursuing. Bachelor of Arts or Science. We have to know that by the third semester. If the computer science exam gives even a small glimpse of what’s to come, then I’ll try with all my might to cling to the Bachelor of Arts. Otherwise, I might end up empty-handed. You can always justify good or bad art, but computer science is like an out-of-control killer robot. It knows no mercy, only zeros and ones. Pass or fail. Life or death. And I know which side I would be on.

Apart from that, I can say that Interactive Media is a lot of fun, rich in variety, and should be interesting for anyone who feels at home in both the artistic and technical worlds. Most of the entertainment value comes from fellow students with whom you struggle through lectures, trainings, and exams. Unfortunately, I can no longer claim to be a freshman. This temporally very limited term, in connection with my no longer quite so dewy person, had always led to wide eyes and the one or other stuttering in people facing me. I’m excited to see what new adventures await us in the second semester and will spend the next few weeks reviewing the basics of programming to get through the postponed exam just fine as well.

You Can Have Alone Time When You’re Dead

My biggest concern when I started college wasn’t about the courses, the professors, or future fears about what I would do with the degree, but how the other students would react to my age. While the president of the university gave a speech on the first day, the campus was packed with young people scurrying back and forth, equally confused and full of nervousness. In between the guided tours, through the buildings, the city, and the room where the beer fridge throned, I got into conversation with my fellow students. Gradually, the more or less fashionably dressed puppets turned into interesting characters with names, pasts, and humor.

When I entered the cafeteria the following Monday, the first familiar heads were already smiling at me. Hey, Marcel! I heard from one of the tables cheerfully call over. Of course, I’m still the old fart. Just like Kerstin is the stoner, Jonas is the farter, and Dana is the one who got mounted in a fire truck. I’m not the only one who gets stupid looks from other students I don’t know yet, no, everyone has to carry their baggage in whatever way. Since that fateful first week, various friendships have emerged from the hundreds of encounters that have taken me all over the city, to buoyant apartments, clubs, and bars.

No matter where I go, I see familiar faces everywhere. Not only from university, but also from friends, roommates, and relationships of those who didn’t avoid me because of my difference, but, on the contrary, invited me into their lives with open arms. As we stumble out of Iveta’s apartment, hooting loudly, and smelling of tequila, wine, and popcorn schnapps, into the nearest convenience store to buy a few more road beers, I glance down the brightly lit street. I am now part of this scenery. Because I have dared to do something and have not closed myself off from the unknown. Since one truth is certain: You can have alone time when you’re dead.

Feelings Without a Name

Sometimes I meet people whose existence fascinates me so much that I can hardly comprehend it. It’s not like I’m overwhelmed with love, hate, or pity. Because the affection I feel for the person doesn’t fit into the emotional template into which I’ve squeezed all previous encounters. It’s not love because I’m not consumed by jealousy, desire, or grief. It’s not hate because I finally feel a touch of empathy again. And it’s not pity because any supposed fragility I see in the other is merely a reflection of my own inadequacies. But I want to know everything about the girl. Even the smallest banalities become significant, important, and even overrated.

Maybe she’s just a normal girl who wants to cope with herself and the chaotic world around her and has enough to do with that alone, and I just imagine being just a little bit infatuated with her and her secrets, because I can thereby ignore the complexity of my own life for a short time. I can only receive the happiness of myself when I have found out how the other person defines happiness. After all, reality will be able to wait that long for me. I rack my brain over the question which emotion I feel now. If I could think of a name for it, it would be easier to find a way to deal with it, to put it aside, to cope with it.

The feeling without a name is too strong to ignore but too weak to deal with it. The worst thing about it is that I may have no right to it. I’m nothing more than some random guy in the background. Maybe it doesn’t even make sense to find a meaning for it. Because it can disappear as quickly as it came. Soon the girl has moved on again. On to new scenes, people, and stories. While I linger in the backdrop that has just been abandoned by the spotlight and is about to dissolve, gazing after the once so disarmingly smiling silhouette, only to have forgotten shortly afterward that the feeling without a name ever existed.

A Student for Life

After the more or less sudden end of AMY&PINK, I felt lost. By my late 30s, my life seemed to be over. What was there to come of it now? Except a heart attack from too many frozen pizzas, too little exercise, and too much jerking off to dubious porn. The only things that kept me alive were the interminable voicemails from my good friend Hannah, who probably knew me better than I knew myself at this point, the programming course that the employment office forced on me so that I wouldn’t be completely useless to society, and the fact that I was much too lazy and cowardly to commit suicide.

On a hot summer day, I went to Munich. After I had bought a book about Japanese pop culture, I sat down on a bench to skim through it. I noticed that I was in front of the city’s university. Young people were swarming around, chatting, laughing. The large buildings watched over the small figures, most of them scurrying around frantically, whose future would be formed in them.Two fashionable women had taken a seat next to me. The blonde proudly told me that her little sister had registered just in time for the entrance exam for the upcoming winter semester. The brunette marveled somewhat exaggeratedly. I hope she gets in! For sure!

I was sad that I never had the opportunity to become a student. When I got back home, I was interested in what I was allowed to study with my qualifications. Communication design. Graphic design. Interactive media. The last one sounded cool. I filled out the application form from the nearest university and was invited to the entrance exam and the following interview. Then I was a student. A few weeks earlier, I had thought that my life was over, that there was nothing more to come. But suddenly I found myself in a new story, with new goals, new tasks and new people. An unexpected adventure had begun. After all, I’m a student for life.

People Who Stare at Streets

Yusuke looks out the window. Under the voice of his late wife, houses, trees, and the sea fly past him. He doesn’t even notice another person sitting in front of him in the red Saab 900 Turbo, while he fills in the sentences’ gaps with his own words. Misaki will soon get him to a place where he can finally find himself. I watched Drive My Car by Ryusuke Hamaguchi last night. The Oscar-winning Best International Film, based on the short story of the same name from Haruki Murakami’s 2014 book Men Without Women, recounts the experiences of two people whose fateful encounter no one could have foreseen - least of all themselves.

Successful stage actor and director Yusuke lives in Tokyo and is married to Oto, a beautiful playwright with whom he shares a peaceful life despite a painful past. When Oto dies, Yusuke is left with unanswered questions and the regret that he couldn’t truly understand her. Two years later, Yusuke accepts an offer to direct a production of Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima. There, he meets Misaki, a young chauffeur hiding a traumatic past of her own. His increasingly intimate conversations with Misaki force him to confront uncomfortable truths and uncover haunting secrets left behind by his wife.

Misaki’s character reminds me of someone I know. Her sober, disarming, and perceptive manner invites me to want to know more about her. The conversations in Drive My Car are like dances with the purpose of building bridges to other people. Only those who haven’t even begun to try to understand Drive My Car would describe it as calm. Every scene is seething, bursting with human emotions. Its characters have shed any childishness and try to maneuver themselves safely through the thicket of painful memories, only to have to admit to themselves at the end that they cannot drive away from the past - not even in a red Saab 900 Turbo.

When the Voice of an Entire Generation Fell Silent

People still ask me what happened to AMY&PINK. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days in Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their denial of reality. The answer is: I don’t know. Maybe things just have to end at some point, before they are artificially kept alive. At the beginning of the new decade, AMY&PINK was the digital destination for rebels, hipsters, and avant-gardists. We were invited by big brands to events all over the world, all because we wrote weird things on the internet, used swear words all the time, and posted images of vomiting naked girls and swastikas made of cocaine.

The problem was that I maneuvered AMY&PINK into a spiral of absurdity. While everything was initially funny, ironic, and over the top, at some point a completely far-fetched professionalization of the content took hold. On the one hand, we had to be more outrageous than everyone else, while on the other hand, advertisers demanded fewer explicit images. As a result, more and more irrelevant articles took over the front page. If I were even a fraction as cool as I pretended to be in my articles, I should have doused AMY&PINK with gasoline years ago, set it on fire, and let it explode behind me in cinematic slow motion as I walked away with a crazy smile toward the camera.

But I’m not cool. In the end, I put way too much time into saving AMY&PINK - time that I should have invested in important things like getting a real job, having children, planting trees, building houses, and other meaningful pursuits. So one morning, I sat down and purged the server. I felt nothing. Nothing at all. It was finally over. I learned a lot from AMY&PINK. But now it’s time to let it rest and start something new. After all, the world out there is huge, and the possibilities to find happiness are limitless. You just have to have the courage to let go, reach out to the unknown, and let it lead you to new adventures - before it’s finally too late.

Songs From Another World

When I finally got my driver’s license in my early 20s and raced my mother’s bright red Seat Ibiza through the streets of my hometown, crisscrossing back and forth, there was no hip hop, no techno, and no Britney Spears blaring from my speakers. No, it was the then-new single by a Japanese pop musician. Kumi Koda was her name. Butterfly was the song. My girlfriend at the time, huddled in the passenger seat, was ashamed of me as we drove past the local ice cream parlor, the school, and the outdoor pool. With Butterfly at full volume. Of course, it makes absolutely no sense that I listen to Japanese music. I’m, surprise, surprise, not Japanese after all. Wow.

With songs like First Love, Secret Base, and Rewrite, I can weave together my own stories in my head. Imagine my own personal closing credits. Fantasize my life on the other side of the world. J-pop exudes the same kind of magic you had as a kid, listening to foreign songs on the radio and not yet having to understand what nonsense was being sung about. Japanese music is melodic, emotional, and has an intangible power that can otherwise only be experienced by accidentally standing between sweaty weebs armed with two to seven Canon SLR cameras and a sixteen-year-old girl dressed as Rem from Re:Zero at some random anime convention.

Japanese people like Swedish indie bands, American rappers, and British DJs. But J-pop songs are the anthems of my own little screwed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care if I listen to their songs, adore the stars, and watch the music videos. I don’t exist for them. J-pop is a huge personal playlist. Just for me. I can dance to it. Laugh. Cry. I’m fully aware that with the revelation that I love J-pop, I have lost any chance of future sexual intercourse with another human being. Forever. So I sit here, close my eyes, and listen to Perfume, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, and Babymetal. As they confidently sing about sekai, dokidoki, and hanabi. And I’m happy.

The Transience of Written Words

This blog has changed repeatedly over the past years. It started as a small diary of a Bavarian media designer and evolved into a collection of stories from creative minds across Germany and beyond. It transformed from the bible of Berlin nightlife to a tabloid for hipsters. From a digital news site to a nonstop ticker of viral happenings. Eventually, I faced a monstrosity of false expectations and hopeless prospects. This website tried to be everything but collapsed under the weight of not being able to do anything right. For various reasons, I had forgotten what this blog was truly about and aimed to stay relevant at all costs in the fast-paced media chaos.

Looking ahead, there was only one choice: keeping up. Keeping up with the news. Keeping up with the trends. Keeping up with the loud, shiny, and flashy. At some point, I was blindly churning out news, lookbooks, gossip, YouTube videos, shitstorms, and sensational content in a completely irrelevant mix. The blog had become filled to the bursting point with nonsense. By the end, all I wanted was for it to be over. One last night, soaked in cheap wine from the convenience store, I rummaged through the old texts. The ones I had published when blogs were just getting big, when life was still a game, and when everything seemed right with the world.

I realized there was only one way to save my blog: to do the opposite of what I had done in recent years. My blog should once again become a peaceful garden amid a jungle of nonsense. A place where everyone can have fun, whether they want to indulge in the profound reflections on the transience of life or simply marvel at a few pretty images of even prettier adventures. Everyone is welcome to look around and take with them the thoughts and opinions they find important, right, or amusing. I would be happy if I could continue to accompany you, entertain, and inspire you a little on your turbulent life journey - doing it my way.