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 important 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.
God Is Chill
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.
Men 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 せかい, ドキドキ, and はなび. 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.
