I’m a digital artist, writer, designer, photographer, hacker, typographer, illustrator, director, traveler, and popular culture enthusiast from Germany who has lived, studied, and worked in Japan, China, Spain, France, Great Britain, Italy, Canada, Portugal, Czechia, and the United States, among other inspiring places. My passions include movies about the end of mankind, music from the eighties, and the Japanese way of life in general. Today I’m studying Interactive Media at Augsburg Technical University of Applied Sciences and write essays about life, art, music, technology, movies, books, fashion, travel, games, and food. This notebook is a collection of my stories, thoughts, and experiences, as well as photos, videos, and interesting discoveries I stumbled upon on the Internet. Write me an email!
Sure, I understand why people become vegetarians or even full-on vegans. Once you’ve looked into the sad eyes of an innocent lamb just before it’s led, together with its tiny friends and the rest of its loudly bleating family, to a fully automated slaughter line, where it’s torn apart before the wide-open eyes of its loved ones, you start thinking differently about the piece of meat on your plate. I, too, tried to join the cult of supposedly better people.
With my eating-disordered girlfriend, I grazed for months on broccoli, nuts, and hummus, until I dragged myself, starving, into a Burger King, where a kind employee revived me with cheap animal scraps before releasing me back into the wild. The relationship ended shortly afterward. For years after that, I turned into a temporary vegetarian whenever I came across one of those cruel activists videos shot in slaughterhouses. Clips where newly hatched chicks went straight into the grinder because they weren’t the expected sex, or squealing pigs were beaten to death with shovels simply because the workers were bored at three in the morning.
Meat has never been cheaper or more widely available, but it has also never been so low in quality. One food scandal follows the next. Who can still bite into a sausage, a steak, or a kebab without feeling guilty? And yet I keep eating meat. Why? Because I like the taste. And because my body screams for it if I deny it for a week.
When I once asked a Japanese friend at dinner why so few Japanese people are vegetarians, he calmly replied, Because everything has a soul. What he meant was that every meal brings suffering to some living being, whether it can scream loudly or feel pain in ways we can barely grasp scientifically or socially. The future isn’t about total abstinence but increased awareness. The era of cheap, mass-produced meat must end, but a balanced diet with high-quality foods should be possible. Yes, I try to reduce my meat consumption and focus more on fresh fish, crunchy nuts, and crisp vegetables. But a good organic steak or a juicy cheeseburger from my favorite shop down the street is something I still can’t, and won’t, give up.
Sure, I understand why people become vegetarians or even full-on vegans. Once you’ve looked into the sad eyes of an innocent lamb just before it’s led, together with its tiny friends and the rest of its loudly bleating family, to a fully automated slaughter line, where it’s torn apart before the wide-open eyes of its loved ones, you start thinking differently about the piece of meat on your plate.
Sure, I understand why people become vegetarians or even full-on vegans. Once you’ve looked into the sad eyes of an innocent lamb just before it’s led, together with its tiny friends and the rest of its loudly bleating family, to a fully automated slaughter line, where it’s torn apart before the wide-open eyes of its loved ones, you start thinking differently about the piece of meat on your plate.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The idyllic 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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
When I started my studies, my biggest concern wasn’t the course material, the professors, or fears about what the hell I would do with my degree once I had it in my pocket, but rather how the other students would react to me. After all, at the end of my 30s, I was twice their age. Most of them could have been my children. Maybe they were. One or two faces did look familiar... During the introductory week, my suspicion that I was the oldest person there was confirmed. By a long shot. Not just in my degree program, but generally within a 500-meter radius. Even the janitor was probably younger than me. And he was about to retire. Should that have given me pause? Yes, perhaps. But now that I was here, I had to make the best of it. In any case, I was mentally preparing myself to spend the next few years in isolation at the senior citizens’ table, slurping porridge and philosophizing with myself about the good old days. When MySpace was still the measure of all things. When I still had to rewind VHS tapes before returning them to the video store. When the song of the year was a techno remix of the Smurfs. Every Smurf loves to listen to the radio, full blast anyway. The rhythm crashes into every leg, that’s how dance music for Smurfs should be! While the university president gave his third welcome speech of the day and seemed just as enthusiastic as he was during his first, the campus was packed with young people who were equally confused and nervous, scurrying back and forth. Their T-shirts were decorated with more or less creative graduation slogans. 12 years of Walk of Fame - The stars leave, the fans stay. And: Graduate today, Captain tomorrow. Or even: With their high school diplomas in hand, heroes become legends. With so much concentrated youthfulness, I felt like throwing up. However, I had of course expected this sight beforehand. Because I’m extremely clever. What else could I have expected? Exactly. After all, these people were the norm here - not me. They were the crowd, I was the outsider. Between the tours of the building, the city, and the room where the beer fridge was located, I got into conversation with my fellow students. Little by little, the uniform mass of more or less fashionably dressed bodies transformed into interesting characters with names, pasts, and humor. I quickly realized that they were just normal people, each with their own fears, hopes, and dreams. And they were all as excited as I was, if not more so, just for different reasons. A week full of get-to-know-you tours, various house parties, and a boozy study trip to the Bavarian Forest later, I no longer felt any fear of not being able to fit in because of my advanced age. When I entered the cafeteria the following Monday, the first familiar faces were already beaming at me. Hey, Marcel! I heard someone call cheerfully from one of the tables. I grinned back, followed the lively crowd, and sat down in a free seat among my new companions. Of course, I’m still the old fart. Just like Jenny is the pothead, Tim is the farting guy, and Fiona is the one who got plowed in a fire truck. I’m not the only one who gets stupid looks from strange students, no, everyone has their own baggage to carry, in one way or another. The key to happiness in this case is unconditional openness and a positive attitude - no matter how difficult that may be at times. Being part of a group means being aware of my possibly not-so-glorious shortcomings and taking it with humor when they are in the spotlight. The important thing is to have a good line ready to keep the wheel turning and shift the focus to the next person. It’s a game I only lose if I don’t participate. Since that fateful first week, hundreds of encounters have blossomed into friendships that have taken me all over the city, to various apartments, clubs, and bars. No matter where I go, I see familiar faces everywhere. Not only from my degree program, the student council, and the courses I took, but also from friends, roommates, and acquaintances who didn’t shy away from me because of my differences but, on the contrary, invited me into their lives. Of course, I still have to listen to the occasional stupid comment. But that’s part of it. Today, it’s completely normal for me to walk the streets with them, exchange stories, create memories, and delay the morning a little longer. I’m happy to learn more about those who confide in me, to support them with advice, action, and some jokes, and to help them solve one problem or another conscientiously - provided they want that at all. If you think you hate people, that you don’t need anyone but yourself, that you’re better off closing yourself off from everything and everyone, then you need to pack your bags, set your old life on fire, and go somewhere else. With new people, new opportunities, and new adventures. And as quickly as possible. Of course, these relationships are not permanent either. I will soon forget many names, faces, and encounters. And they will forget me. Because they have moved on. Or because I have taken a different path. And that’s perfectly fine. Because new people will come into my life again, over and over, as long as I make it possible, in whatever way I can. Some of them will stay, for longer, maybe even forever. But these opportunities only arise if you don’t nip every conceivable contact in the bud just because you’ve convinced yourself at some point that you’re happier alone. Out of fear, out of pain, out of feeling overwhelmed. Because no matter how strong you think you are in this matter, at some point you will break down. And then it will be too late. As we stumble out of Iveta’s apartment door, shouting loudly and smelling of tequila, wine, and popcorn schnapps, to grab a few more beers to go, I glance briefly down the brightly lit street. New people are streaming through it, and in the buildings, people are laughing, singing, and dancing. Right now, at this moment, I am part of this backdrop, this ensemble, these stories. Because I took a chance and didn’t close myself off to the unknown, even though that would have been so much easier. Because one thing is certain: I can have alone time when I’m dead.
In the most unexpected situations, I encounter girls whose sheer existence fascinates me so much that I can hardly comprehend it. It’s not as if I’m overwhelmed by love, hate, or pity, because the tentative affection I feel for the girl on the other side doesn’t fit into the emotional templates into which I’ve almost instinctively pressed all my 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. I’m happy when the girl is happy, and sad when the girl is sad. And it’s not pity, because any supposed fragility I see in the girl is merely a reflection of my own inadequacies. The more interesting I find a girl, the more I naturally want to learn about her. Even the smallest banalities that no one else is aware of, perhaps not even the girl in the spotlight, become significant, important, even overrated. What kind of music does she listen to? What clothes does she wear? How exactly did she become the collection of ideas, ideals, and identities that she is today? And what would I even do with the answers to these questions? The incomprehensibility of otherness can drive me mad if I’m not careful. Not only can I find no definition for my own feelings, I can’t even manage to pigeonhole the girl into neat categories. Every encounter brings new insights, and I feel compelled to shatter the theories I carved in stone the day before. Then the floor, littered with dust and debris, bears witness to the fact that the irrefutable knowledge of human nature, which I had been convinced of all these years, was worth about as much as the time I wasted trying to find answers to questions that may not even exist. After all, not even the girl in whom I suspect this enlightenment knows of its existence. Perhaps I project too much onto the girl. Perhaps there’s nothing there. Perhaps she’s just a normal girl who simply wants to come to terms with herself and the world around her and already has enough to deal with, and I’m just imagining that I’m a little infatuated with her and her supposed secrets because it allows me to ignore the complexity of my own life for a short time. After all, I can only receive my own happiness once I’ve figured out how the girl defines happiness. Reality can wait for me until then. I rack my brains trying to figure out exactly what feeling I’m experiencing. Because if I could come up with a name for it, a definition, it would be easier to find a way to deal with it, to put it behind me, to come to terms with it. I’m not even sure if what’s buzzing around in my head is a real feeling at all, or if it’s just my imagination because I have too much time to think again. The feeling without a name is too strong to ignore but too weak to fully engage with. So I carry it around with me out of slowly creeping habit and wait almost anxiously for the moment when it knocks on the door of my chaotic world of thoughts again - usually when the mischievously smiling face that first led me down this strange path, in the truest sense of the word, enters the room. But perhaps this gap in my own emotional spectrum is also sad proof that I’ve lived my life so far in a predetermined manner, in which even my feelings were copies of copies of copies - from television, from books, from the lies of society. Their names are rules, no, almost laws, for how I should behave when I stumble into one of these feelings. Do I feel love? Then I despise the relationship the girl is in, burst with jealousy when she even looks at someone else, and cry alone at night, masturbating into my pillow, because I will never be part of her colorful world. Do I feel hatred? Then I turn the girl’s life into a hell on earth, set fire to her pet, her family, and her entire apartment building, spin the threads of manipulation so skillfully that she ends up collapsing in the street, screaming, because life no longer has any meaning. Do I feel pity? Then I turn myself into a more or less invisible guardian angel who will do anything to ensure that the victim of my favor never, ever suffers harm again - and I make sure to feel really good and great and important about myself while I’m doing it, because otherwise it all makes no sense. In the end, it’s all about me and no one else. Just like always. What’s the point of helping someone else if I can’t reap the rewards? Exactly. The worst thing about this nameless feeling is that I may not even have a right to it. After all, there are far more important people in the life of the girl I want to impose my worn-out template on. I’m nothing more than a fleeting minor character whose stage appearance is so brief that I’m not even explicitly mentioned in the script - at most perhaps as a passerby, spectator, or guy no. 5. But perhaps this insight is enough to make peace with the nameless feeling. Maybe it makes no sense to find meaning in it, because it’s not permanent and can disappear as quickly as it came - at the latest when the girl whose accessible gaze triggered it in the first place has moved on. On to new scenes, people, stories. While I myself linger in the backdrop that has just been abandoned by the spotlight and is about to dissolve, watching the silhouette that once smiled so disarmingly, only to forget shortly afterwards that the nameless feeling ever existed.
After the more or less sudden end of AMY&PINK, I felt lost. For fifteen years, I had put all my energy into a project that was full of fun, passion, and hope at the beginning, but by the end was just a slowly fading burden. When the bright lettering finally disappeared, I didn't know what to do with myself. I sank into idleness, the days just passing me by. Was today Tuesday or already Friday? February or September? What year was it anyway? I couldn't bring myself to do anything productive anymore and spent days, weeks, and months going for walks, watching TV shows, and going through depressive phases where I just lay there and switched between scrolling through Reddit, YouTube, and Pornhub. From sunrise to sunset. And vice versa. In my late 30s, my life seemed to be over. What else was there to look forward to? Except maybe a heart attack caused by too many frozen pizzas and too little exercise. The only things that kept me alive were the voice messages from my good friend Hannah, who probably knew me better than I knew myself at that point, the programming course I was forced to take by the employment office so that I would at least be busy with something, and the fact that I was far too lazy to commit suicide. On a much too hot summer day in June, I took the cheap ticket to nearby Munich to run around in circles and listen to a few podcasts. After all, I knew the streets of my hometown so well that they were getting on my nerves. At least there was life in Munich, even if there was none left inside me. After buying a picture book about Japanese pop culture in a bookstore, because that was the only topic that still interested me even remotely, I sat down on a free bench on my way back to the city center to leaf through it a little and at the same time press the ice-cold can of Diet Coke I had bought at the nearby supermarket to my mouth. Its contents had been my main source of nutrition for several weeks - after all, I didn't want to get any fatter. When I looked up, I noticed that the bench I was sitting on was in front of the city university. Young people were buzzing all over the grounds, chatting and laughing. Some were in a hurry, others were sitting on the grass. There was a lively atmosphere. The large buildings watched over the small, mostly hectic figures whose futures would be shaped within them. The setting reminded me of TV shows such as Gilmore Girls, Community, and Greek, and I found it a little sad that I never had the opportunity to lead what was surely a pretty exciting student life. Because my secondary school diploma wasn't good enough for that, and after completing my training as a media designer, I had simply ignored the option of being allowed to study. After all, I wanted to earn money. With AMY&PINK. And that would undoubtedly live forever and soon become an international media empire. Like Vice. Or the New York Times. Or Russia Today, for that matter. Who needed a degree... So there I was, in my late 30s, sitting on this bench, with nothing but a book and a can of Diet Coke to my name, feeling sorry for myself. Two young women had taken a seat next to me. The blonde proudly told me that her little sister had just registered in time for the entrance exam for the coming winter semester. The brunette was a little overly surprised. I hope she gets accepted!She definitely will! When I got home, I became interested in what I could have studied with the qualifications I had gained through my vocational training. Communication Design was listed. Graphic Design. Interactive Media. And I was a little annoyed that I hadn't taken advantage of this opportunity, but had been so stubborn as to consistently ignore any path that led me away from my own film project. And at the time, I was even proud of my stubbornness. While lethargically clicking around on the internet, I came across the website of the Augsburg University of Applied Sciences, which had been offering a combination of design and computer science in its Interactive Media program for several years and advertised it with flowery words. In times of great social and technological upheaval, the future of work, coexistence, mobility, and communication is changing, it said. Whether on the web, in the Internet of Things, in virtual realities, or in Industry 4.0: Media and technologies encounter us in many different ways in the course of the digitalization of our environment.With our renowned Interactive Media courses, we ideally prepare young people who have a passion for design and technical craftsmanship, it continued. Students are taught design and media-specific skills as well as basic working methods and procedures. In numerous seminars and project work, students practice applying their specialist knowledge in practice. And: Topics covered in the program include interface and interaction design, software development, 2D/3D animation, web and app development, sound and motion design, game design, and game development. The unique interdisciplinary approach of the Faculty of Design and the Faculty of Computer Science guarantees a sound education in the fields of design and media informatics. The program sounded like a colorful grab bag of everything I enjoyed. Designing, programming, I would even learn how to create video games. It was pure madness. Before I sank back into self-pity because I had never taken advantage of this opportunity, a date caught my eye. There was still one week left to apply for the program. The admission requirements stated that not only a high school diploma but also a vocational qualification would be sufficient to be accepted into the program - provided that I passed the necessary entrance exam. I took a sip from my seventh can of Diet Coke that day, thought for a moment, and filled out the linked application form. I can give it a try, was my motto from that day on. After that, everything happened very quickly. I was invited to take the entrance exam, which I passed. I was invited to an interview, which I passed. I was sent the application for enrollment, which I submitted on time. At the beginning of October, I entered the campus of Augsburg University of Applied Sciences, sat down in a lecture hall for the first time, and suddenly I was a student. A few weeks earlier, I had thought that my life would be over by the time I reached my late 30s, that there was nothing more to come, that all my dreams had been dreamed and all my hopes buried. Suddenly, I found myself in a completely new story, with new goals, new tasks, and new people. An unexpected adventure had begun - after all, I’m a student for life.
Yusuke looks out of the window. Accompanied by the voice of his deceased wife, houses, trees, and the sea fly past him. He doesn’t notice that there is another person sitting in the red Saab 900 Turbo in front of him as he fills in the gaps in the sentences with his own words. Misaki will soon drive him to a place where he can finally find himself. Last night, I saw Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s Drive My Car for the second time. The Oscar-winning Best International Feature Film is based on the short story of the same name from Haruki Murakami’s 2014 book Men Without Women and tells the story of two people whose fateful encounter no one could have foreseen - least of all themselves. Yusuke Kafuku, played by Hidetoshi Nishijima, is a successful stage actor and director who is married to the mysterious Oto, played by Reika Kirishima, a beautiful playwright with whom he shares a peaceful life despite a painful past. When Oto suddenly dies, Yusuke is left with unanswered questions and the regret that he could not really understand her - nor did he want to. Two years later, Yusuke, who is still struggling with Oto’s death, accepts an offer to direct a production of Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima. He drives his beloved fire-red Saab 900 Turbo to the big city in the west, where, upon arrival, he learns to his surprise and disappointment that, for legal reasons, he is forced to let Misaki Watari, brought to life by the magnificent Toko Miura, a young chauffeur who hides her own traumatic past, drive his car. Rehearsals progress, and eventually Yusuke and Misaki develop a routine, with the Saab increasingly becoming an unexpected confessional for both driver and passenger. Less pleasant for Yusuke, however, is the decision to cast Koji Takatsuki, played by Masaki Okada, a handsome young television actor with an unwanted connection to his late wife, in the lead role. As the premiere approaches, tensions between the cast and crew grow, and Yusuke’s increasingly intimate conversations with Misaki force him to face uncomfortable truths and uncover haunting secrets left behind by his wife. There are three reasons why I wanted to make a film based on Haruki Murakami’s short story ‘Drive My Car’, reveals director Ryusuke Hamaguchi. First, it’s about Kafuku and Misaki and the interactions between these two fascinating characters. And these interactions take place in a car. These descriptions brought back memories of intimate conversations that can only happen in this enclosed, moving space. Because it’s a moving space, it’s actually nowhere, and there are times when this place helps us discover aspects of ourselves that we have never shown to anyone before, or thoughts that we could not put into words before.Next, the short story deals with the theme of acting, Ryusuke continues. Acting means having multiple identities, which is, so to speak, a socially accepted form of madness. Practicing it as a profession is, of course, grueling and sometimes even leads to nervous breakdowns. But I know people who have no choice but to do it. And these people, who act for a living, are actually healed by this madness, which enables them to continue living. This kind of acting as a kind of survival strategy is something that has interested me for a long time. And: The final factor is the ambiguous character named Takatsuki and the way his voice is portrayed. Kafuku is pretty sure that Takatsuki slept with his wife before she died, and he considers the man to be a not particularly skilled actor. But one day, Takatsuki uncovers Kafuku’s blind spot. If we hope to truly see another person, we must begin by looking within ourselves, he says, and the reason this rather stereotypical remark devastates Kafuku is that he intuitively senses that it’s a truth he could never have arrived at on his own. ‘His words were clear and full of conviction. He wasn’t acting, that much is certain.’I thought: I know voices like that, explains the filmmaker. I’ve heard them in real life. I also knew that when you hear a voice like that, you can’t be the same as before, and that you are obliged to respond to what that voice demands of you. The short story didn’t go into what happened next - I felt that Kafuku’s response hadn’t been portrayed yet. But why did Ryusuke choose this particular material for his work? When I started working on the film adaptation of this short story full of fascinating elements, I wanted to unfold these questions and answers as a chain of voices containing the truths as presented in the story, in order to arrive at Kafuku’s final answer. It was also about creating an experience for the audience that would allow them to feel the truth continuously and intuitively through the fiction that is the play. Does the film ‘Drive My Car’ achieve this? I don’t know. I think the answer to that question will be a long time coming. I’m glad I’ve now seen Drive My Car for the second time, because with each new encounter, I have different expectations of the characters, whose thoughts and actions seem to be reflections of our my understanding of human interaction. The character of Misaki, for example, now vaguely reminds me of someone I met recently. Her sober, disarming, and astute manner invites me to want to learn more about her. What does she think? Why does she think that way? And who or what made her who she is today? The flowing conversations in Drive My Car are like intimate dances whose intention is to build bridges to the other person. Brick by brick, meter by meter. With each new day that dawns in Hiroshima, there is a chance that two people will open up a little more to each other, only to be rewarded with new insights - no matter how painful they may be. And these insights apply not only to the other person, but often to myself as well. Only those who have not even attempted to understand Drive My Car would describe it as calm. Every scene is seething with tension. Yusuke, who cannot forgive himself for his wife’s death and searches for answers that may not even exist. Misaki, whose observations only become words of trust when she assesses the chances of further hurt as low. And Koji, whose search for meaning can only save others, but not himself. Eiko Ishibashi’s selectively used music dispels the absolute silence at just the right moments, which is otherwise only interrupted by glances, touches, and conversations. Extensive tracking shots across the autumnal Japanese backdrop make the characters appear as if in a diorama, their desires, hopes, and dreams seeming small and lonely. A meta-level runs through the entire film: The story of Uncle Vanya, who is confronted with his life and his missteps in Anton Chekhov’s world-famous play. The character of Vanya represents someone who has spent his life working toward something that never came to fruition. It’s a reflection on the time and emotions that have been wasted, a theme that both Yasuke and Misaki grapple with throughout the film, as both deeply regret their past relationships. Drive My Car is mature in the truest sense of the word. Its characters have shed all childishness, all banality, indeed, all traces of joie de vivre, and try with their last ounce of strength to maneuver safely through the thicket of painful memories, only to have to admit in the end that they cannot drive away from the past - not even in a red Saab 900 Turbo.
Even today, people I don’t really know still ask me by email, letter, and shouting through open windows what actually happened to AMY&PINK. The portal of good cheer. The party ship of Berlin’s newcomers. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days straight at Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their own denial of reality. Vice’s crude mix of topics has set a precedent, even in the German blogosphere, Hannah Lühmann once compared us in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung to a brain-dead zombie medium that is now on its last legs with embarrassing horoscopes, irrelevant controversies, and paid affiliate links for vibrators. AMY&PINK, for example, Marcel Winatschek’s extremely successful blog, which is considered the Bild newspaper of hipsters, is one of the epigones. Because it deals intensively with the breasts of various A- to F-list celebrities, but in a sloppy manner copied from Vice, oscillating between constant boredom and permanent excitement. And further: On AMY&PINK, readers learn that consuming crystal meth will turn them into ‘lazy zombies,’ that ‘stupid-looking four-legged creatures’ are the ‘true heroes of the night’ because an American blogger photographs strangers’ dogs at night. And they are urged to finally take away the swastika from ‘the Nazis’ and their ‘ugly friends’ because it is actually a symbol of love and peace. The blog is read mainly by young city dwellers, and its ironic attitude applies to the overall social situation as well as the latest YouTube hit. The reflexive answer to the highly individual question of why AMY&PINK no longer exists is: No idea. And that wouldn’t even be a lie. Because I really don’t know. Maybe it just happened that way at some point. Maybe there was no longer any place for it in today’s media world. Maybe things just have to end at some point before they are kept alive artificially (even longer) for reasons that are incomprehensible. AMY&PINK saw the light of day in 2007 as the successor to my private blog Tokyopunk at the time, just as I was on my way to Berlin to begin my training as a digital media designer in the field of conception and visualization at a digital new media agency called Aperto. Everything was new, everything was exciting, everything in my life suddenly revolved around the German capital and the colorful people who bustled around in it. I filled my new project with personal stories, finds from the internet, and the occasional fresh music video, and found passionate writers such as Hannah, Caro, Ines, Misha, Wenke, Sara, Meltem, Jana, Daniela, and Leni to take the site to the next level. AMY&PINK transformed from a small blog into one of the nation’s most widely read online magazines. In the early years of the new decade, AMY&PINK was the digital go-to for young rebels, hipsters, and avant-gardists - and those who wanted to be just that, or at least know what these chaotic guys were up to and spouting nonsense about. We were invited by brands such as Mercedes, Microsoft, and Deutsche Telekom to events throughout Germany and around the world. New York, Toronto, London. Rome, Shenzhen, Los Angeles. Lisbon, Monaco, Las Vegas. To get drunk there with Kendrick Lamar, Tokio Hotel, and Frank Ocean. And all because we wrote strange things on the internet, constantly used swear words, and there were people who wanted to read exactly that. And every now and then there were bare breasts to be seen. Or girls throwing up. Or swastikas made of cocaine. The more provocative, the better. The press loved and hated us at the same time - much like our readers. AMY&PINK succeeds in shocking, wrote Die Welt about us, for example. The only question that remains unanswered is: Who are Amy & Pink? puzzled the Süddeutsche Zeitung. No writing product on the internet has been so unerringly successful in a long time, praised Les Mads. A grin while reading is guaranteed, said Uberding. The high proportion of naked women makes AMY&PINK reminiscent of the 21st century schoolgirl report turned blog, described The Stiller. The classic. Because: good mix, variety of topics, diverse. You just have to like it, rated Indigoidian. Once, when I shared a taxi in Kreuzberg with a Swiss student who was standing randomly at the side of the road and she asked me what I did, she was wide-eyed at my answer: AMY&PINK, I know that, I read it every day! And the guy who checked the press tickets at the Melt Festival just looked at it and said, AMY&PINK? Isn’t that that boob magazine? Even in Prague, a girl at a party knew the site. I loved these chance encounters. AMY&PINK offers, like no other German blog, raw material for bored teenagers who have grown up in their filter bubble of iPhone, Facebook, Buzzfeed, but also Miley Cyrus and YouPorn, Nils Jacobsen tried to describe us at Meedia. The world of AMY&PINK is less about the girls themselves and more about the girls in the male imagination, who have an inexhaustible arsenal at their disposal in the age of social media. It’s a world of fast, always-available sex, even if it’s not actually available right now - after all, YouPorn is always available. And further: It’s a viral world that traditional media have completely missed - and even Neon, the mouthpiece of the somewhat more sophisticated younger generation, often only touches on. Most recently, the G+J magazine boldly ventured into the taboo subject of masturbation - AMY&PINK, on the other hand, provides direct templates. Every day, young writers can work their way through the minor scandals that happen in the pop world.As trashy, calculated, and linguistically limited as the Berlin blog often comes across, its directness clearly strikes more of a chord with the zeitgeist of the younger social media generation, who now spend their time on YouPorn and BuzzFeed rather than Playboy or Spiegel Online, Nils continues. And: The zeitgeist has changed gradually but radically in recent years. For those in their early twenties, it means: Porn is okay. Quick sex is okay. Sasha Grey and Miley Cyrus are their protagonists - not the Eurovision Song Contest and Lena. AMY&PINK is the most consistent stenographer of the new pornographic Internet age: Today, everyone can see everything - and everyone does see everything. And Marcel Winatschek is the blogging pimp of the Miley Cyrus generation, who constantly feeds 18-year-olds new material - written by those very same 18-year-olds. Unfortunately, the problem was that I continuously maneuvered AMY&PINK into a spiral of what the fucks from which I soon couldn’t get the site out. At first, everything was funny, ironic, and over the top, but at some point, a completely far-fetched professionalization of the content took hold. On the one hand, we had to be even more outrageous than everyone else to keep readers interested, but on the other hand, advertisers demanded fewer exposed genitals on the home page. On top of that, the Wild West days of the internet were over by the mid-2010s. Any visual content that wasn’t contractually approved by the copyright holder, rights manager, and preferably three to twelve additional lawyers couldn’t be published. The site lost its visual punch because everything consisted of official press photos, the texts became increasingly absurd and unrealistic, and AMY&PINK transformed from a radiant rock star into a washed-up madman who drunkenly assured strangers on the street that he was still cool - really now, you, burp, stupid cunts!Long before I suddenly found myself in the digital world’s shop window through Twitter, I liked AMY&PINK, Marie von den Benken told Netzwirtschaft. But that was when Hannah Maria Paffen was still there. I was very young and hoping to get castings at Fashion Week. And she was allowed to go there as a blogger. At the time, I knew as much about ‘bloggers ‘as Boris Becker knew about serious liquidity planning, and I thought they were primarily spoiled brats who spent too much money on brand-name clothes, which they then photographed themselves wearing. She continues: Hannah, on the other hand, was genuinely overwhelmed that a company wanted to fly her to Berlin to watch a fashion show, and I started reading all her posts. That must have been around 2007. Eventually she left, and AMY&PINK became the Stefan Effenberg of coming-of-age blogs. Once world class, but today you wish for someone who would tell him every now and then: Just stay at home and enjoy the memories of the good times. With the departure of important AMY&PINK authors, the diversity of voices that had long ensured balance in the site’s content also disappeared. Before the decline, every photo series about fucking teenagers was accompanied by an intimate text about heartbreak, every LSD-soaked music video by an amusing travelogue, every bizarre triviality by a story about the small and big experiences of those who had chosen AMY&PINK as the medium to realize themselves digitally. After all, they could have published their texts in NEON, VICE, or the local newspaper. But at some point, there were only empty shock articles left. Attracting attention at any cost, when no one had been interested for a long time. I tried to save AMY&PINK. Really. God is not my witness, but Hannah is, without whom I might have drowned in my own madness long ago. The poor thing had to listen to the drama every day, for years on end. You have to be able to make something out of this!That can’t be all there is!Maybe try again in another language? I was caught in an endless cycle of brooding, doubting, and trying things out. If I were even a fraction as cool as I always pretended to be in my countless articles, I would have poured gasoline on AMY&PINK years ago, lit it on fire, and let it explode behind me in cinematic slow motion while I walked toward the camera with a crazy smile on my face. But I’m not cool. And I can’t just let go that easily. After all, visitor numbers were still quite good, the content we had built up over the years was being clicked on diligently, and any SEO expert would have been happy with such metrics. But in the end, I spent far too much time trying to save AMY&PINK, time that I should have invested in more important things. Finding a real job, for example. Having children, planting trees, building houses, whatever. Only to admit to myself at some point that AMY&PINK wasn’t going to work out. Not because the website itself wasn’t working anymore, but because I had outgrown the whole thing and it was finally time to say goodbye. AMY&PINK had been fun at one point, but now it wasn’t anymore. And no number of clicks in the world could change that feeling. So one fine morning, I sat down in front of my laptop with a hot coffee, made a backup of the site, and then deleted it from the server. And I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I was simply done with the whole thing. AMY&PINK was dead. And I didn’t care. I finished my coffee, got up, and went for a walk. Even today, people I don’t really know still ask me by email, letter, and shouting through open windows what actually happened to AMY&PINK. The portal of good cheer. The party ship of Berlin’s newcomers. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days at Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their own denial of reality. The reflexive answer to the highly individual question of why AMY&PINK no longer exists is: Because I wasn’t enjoying it anymore. And it took me a long time to admit to myself that this reason alone was enough to end it, even though logic said otherwise. Instead, I now have my own little blog again, which I can fill with content that really interests me, and where it doesn’t matter if I’m the only one who reads it or likes it. Here, it doesn’t matter if I write about my current favorite Japanese band or publish a short story about a city at the end of the world. I can even rescue some articles from AMY&PINK and post it here if I think it would fit in well. Why not? I can now (once again) do what I want. Hurray. I learned a lot from AMY&PINK and the people who had anything to do with it. But now it’s time to let the subject rest and start something new. The world out there is huge and the possibilities for finding 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 too late.
When I finally got my driver’s license in my early 20s and raced through the streets of my uptight hometown in my mother’s bright red Seat Ibiza, criss-crossing back and forth, there was no hip hop, no techno, and no Britney Spears shouting from my speakers. No. It was the then-new single by a Japanese pop musician. Her name was Kumi Koda. The song was Butterfly. My girlfriend at the time, who was sitting huddled in the passenger seat, was mortified as we sped past the local ice cream parlor, the school, and the outdoor pool. With Butterfly blaring at full volume. The fact that she let me back in her life after that is probably one of the most mysterious wonders of the world in human history. Of course, it makes absolutely no sense for me to listen to Japanese music. I’m not Japanese and I don’t speak Japanese. No matter how much I sometimes wish I did and no matter how many Japanese courses I’ve endured. And believe me, there have been quite a few. My teachers are utterly desperate with me. Greetings go out to Mr. Hasegawa, Ms. Takeda, and Mr. Sugimoto. To Ms. Ikeda, Ms. Takahashi, and Ms. Watanabe. To Mr. Fujiwara, Mr. Noguchi, and Ms. Yokoyama. To Ms. Ota, Ms. Sato, and Mr. Suzuki. And to Ms. Maier-Dümpfelstetter. After about 20 years and countless Japanese lessons, on a good day I can count to seven, distinguish between こころ for heart and こども for children, and shout はじめまして、わたしはマセルです！ for Hello, my name is Marcel! That’s it. Really. You’d think that after all the Japanese anime, comics, series, films, concerts, books, dramas, video games, and what feels like hundreds of thousands of songs, I’d be able to do a little more. But no. Even for my great love, Japanese pop culture, I’m still too lazy to seriously learn Japanese. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I’ve met enough Japanese students in my life who wanted to turn their hobby into a career, and with every new word they learned, they became less and less interested in consuming anything Japanese. Perhaps because that’s when you really realize that Japan is just a normal country with problems, boredom, and a relatively average entertainment industry. Like Germany. Or America. Or Romania. Hundreds of Japanese people wouldn’t throw themselves off strategically well-placed bridges, skyscrapers, and train stations every year if the nation in the far, far East were as great as it is portrayed in K-On!. And that’s despite the fact that the show is virtually an all-around credible documentary about the everyday school life of young adolescents in the Land of the Rising Sun. But due to my complete mental block, I can’t even begin to comprehend any further meaning of a Japanese word. To me, everything Japanese sounds great. Everything is wonderful. Everything has something magical about it. If you get wet when Jacques from some Parisian suburb asks you for directions to the nearest public toilet in the worst French accent, then Japanese has the same effect on me. What are you saying, little Japanese girl? Your dog has warts on its balls? Kawaii! I’m that typical, fat, run-of-the-mill nerd who’s always one step away from his first heart attack, who considers Japan to be the Mecca of evolutionary creativity and celebrates everything with even a single Japanese character on it, even though he couldn’t tell it apart from Chinese, with a completely unnatural level of obsession. Soon I’ll be buying cuddly pillows with childlike, half-clothed waifus on them, who are of course actually thousand-year-old vampire queens. I’ll only eat rice drizzled with sake. And I’ll officially change my name to Marcel-san. When musical gods like Hikaru Utada, Scandal, or Asian Kung-Fu Generation pound on the keys, strings, and microphones, roaring, screaming, and strumming, I don’t hear hackneyed lyrics about love, pain, and freedom. I hear the pulse of Tokyo. The vibration of Osaka. The voice of Kyoto. And sometimes even the fart of Düsseldorf. With songs like First Love, Secret Base, or Rewrite, I can piece together my own stories in my head. Imagine my own personal credits. Fantasize about my life on the other side of the world. J-pop exudes the same kind of magic you had as a child when you heard English-language songs on the radio and didn’t yet have to understand what nonsense was being sung about. Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby? Uh, no thanks, I’d rather not. Of course, I could look up the translations of these songs on the internet. But that would be very stupid. Then I would know that my creative heroes, whom I’ve been listening to ever since there was a Japanese song on some Sailor Moon soundtrack CD that forever changed my taste to, let’s say, alternative, so that now I have no friends left, spout the same pop-rock-backed brain shit as Taylor Swift, The Weeknd, and Adele. Only in Japanese. And then I might as well hang myself. Nevertheless, I would argue at this point that J-pop is the best music genre humanity has ever produced. Jazz is dead. Hip hop is murky. Even the otherwise universally celebrated K-pop is nothing more than colorful. Japanese pop music, on the other hand, is melodic, emotional, and captivating with an incredible power that you otherwise only experience when you accidentally find yourself at an anime convention surrounded by sweaty weebs armed with two to seven Canon SLR cameras and a sixteen-year-old dressed as Rem from Re:Zero. Because when you don’t have to pay attention to the lyrics, but only to the musical performance as a whole, you realize the sophistication, skill, and sonic perfection that many Japanese artists put into their completely authentic work. And I can rightly claim, notice, and evaluate this. After all, I studied music history for 63 years. At the Moon University. Maybe J-pop just broke me. Because in their four-minute songs, they like to mix eight different music genres, three orchestras, and a singer screaming at the top of her lungs, stir it all up, and turn the epic switch up to 11. So that you might think the universe is about to explode while God dies and the Keio Girls Senior High School choir cries in the background. J-pop is the anthem of my own little messed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care whether I listen to the songs or not. Whether I worship the stars or not. Whether I watch the music videos or not. They’re not marketed to me through TV commercials, radio slots, and newsletters. I don’t exist for them. I can figure out their meaning for myself. I know nothing about their scandals or problems or rumors. J-pop is a huge, personal playlist. Just for me. Because everyone else thinks the songs are crap. Its emotional range has something for every situation in my life. For dancing. For laughing. For crying. Whether they remind me of sad anime episodes or the stirring background music in video games or heartbreak or my first minutes at Narita Airport, when I stepped through the Welcome to Japan banner into a world full of cultural, technological, and human wonders. J-pop is always there for me and fills the void of wanderlust in my small, constantly annoyed and bored heart. Of course, J-pop isn’t cool. Even Japanese people don’t think J-pop is cool. When I once mentioned at a picnic in Yoyogi Park that I like AKB48, I was allowed to spend the rest of my trip to Japan alone. Apparently, a report about me was repeated every hour on state television, warning the population about me and saying that it was better to stay away from me. A gaijin who likes AKB48 and admits it publicly? If you see this walking hentai, drop everything! Including your children and pets. And run for your bare life! Cool Japanese people like Swedish indie bands, American rappers, and British DJs. But definitely not a bunch of plastered Yukis from next door who have been thrown together into a so-called band by sleazy pimp managers and now have to jump up and down and back and forth to pop dance music until something inside them breaks. Because they realize that only overweight, middle-aged office workers want to celebrate them and have sex with them at the same time. And then, after their identity crisis, often accompanied by shaving their heads and crying in front of TV cameras, they are replaced by younger models. On the other hand, this is probably the case throughout the entertainment industry. Everywhere. All over the world. And when you watch interviews with Japanese bands and musicians, there is no pride in what they have created. No arrogance. Not even a hint of self-confidence. Rather, the exact opposite. A collective apology for being responsible for such noise, which is falsely labeled and sold as music by record companies. As if they should be ashamed of following their dreams. Instead of taking over their fathers’ cement factories, as befits true Japanese descendants. After all, they have brought shame upon Otosan. Shame! Not even they themselves seem to like J-pop. For whatever reason. But maybe that’s just Japanese reserve and politeness, which is clichédly admired and celebrated in every travelogue, no matter how lacking in individuality. They are very shy, you see. The Japanese. All Japanese people. There are no exceptions. Every child knows that. But maybe I’m just weird. Not in a cool way. Oh God, definitely not in a cool way. More in a Should we commit him now or wait two weeks? kind of way. When I hear even a single beat of any Ed Sheeran memorial song on the radio, I want to turn into a mass murderer on the spot. But put me in front of a ten-hour YouTube video of The Best Anime Theme Songs from 1980 to Today at full volume and I’ll starve and die of thirst at the same time. Because I just can’t turn it off. A Cruel Angel’s Thesis is just such a banger. I am fully aware that with this revelation, I have forever ruined any chance of future sexual intercourse. But I just can’t pretend to like people like Katy Perry, Justin Timberlake, or Sabrina Carpenter anymore. I just can’t. Their songs. Their stories. Their thoughts. They just mean nothing to me. Pure. Utter. Nothing. Instead, I sit here, close my eyes with pleasure, and listen to Perfume, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, and Babymetal. How they sing about せかい, ドキドキ, and はなび. And I’m happy. Even though, or maybe even because, I don’t understand a single word.
This website has undergone many changes over the years. From a small blog by a Bavarian media designer to a collection of stories by creative minds from all over Germany. From the bible of Berlin nightlife to a gonzo magazine for hipsters. From a digital news site to a never-sleeping ticker of viral events. Until, at some point, I was faced with a sheer monster of false expectations and hopeless prospects. This blog wanted to be everything, but collapsed as a result, unable to do anything right anymore. For various reasons. I had forgotten what this was really about and wanted to remain relevant at all costs in this fast-paced media world. With my eyes fixed on the future, there was only one choice: Keep up. Keep up with the news. Keep up with the trends. Keep up with the loud, shiny, and flashy. I had to be even more extreme than everyone else. At some point, I just blindly churned out news, lookbooks, gossip, YouTube videos, shitstorms, and tits in a completely irrelevant mix. The main thing was that something was happening. Whether I liked it or not didn’t matter. Stand out at any cost. Fake it till you make it. The future could only get better. But it didn’t. I broke down in a battle I could neither win nor wanted to win. This website had filled itself to bursting with nonsense and bullshit. Of course, I didn’t want to admit it, while everyone else was already shaking their heads. It had to be wilder and wilder, bigger and bigger, stand out at any cost. A relaunch every year. Every year the same promise, packed into a pseudo-epic article, that now everything would be like it used to be. That I understood what readers really wanted. That this blog finally wanted to be good again. But I broke that promise again and again. Because the world around me was getting louder and brighter and flashier, and I couldn’t stop the carousel I was on until my bad metaphors blew up in my face and this website literally broke under the weight of verbal and illustrated shit. In the end, I just wanted it to be over. I was about to delete the site, the archives, all the files. This blog had failed. I wanted world domination. But what I got was a glimpse into the absolute emptiness of a possibly bright future that I had ruined for myself. None of the fun, the expectations, the hope remained. On a final night drenched in wine, I rummaged through the old texts. The ones that were published on this website when blogs were just becoming popular. When life was still a game. When the world still seemed to be in order. They had long since been lost in digital nirvana and crushed under a cement block of meaninglessness. I read them. And they were good. These ten-year-old texts about love, about dreams, about the expectations of an entire generation, they were good. Just good. These texts were better than most of what had been published on this website in recent years. All the fast-paced dramas and rumors and deeds of some walking, breathing attention deficit disorder. All the digital constructs of a money-hungry industry whose little cogs had long since been ravaged by burnout and depression. All the never-ending news of a world that seemed to spin a little faster with each passing day. They were obsolete the moment they were written. Wasted words without meaning. Without resonance. Without weight. I realized that there was only one way to save this blog. And that was to do the exact opposite of what I had considered my task in recent years. To get off this metaphorically still incredibly stupid carousel, which today seems to almost take off due to its speed, to look at it from a safe distance and to go my own way, with my own definition of time. What does that mean now? I want the texts that appear on this website to be relevant not only in the next ten minutes, but also in the next ten years. Someone in the distant future, when hoverboards can really hover and we fly to Space Spring Break on Mars for the weekend, should read them and think: That speaks to my soul. That inspires me to try something new. I should show this to the people I like and love. You shouldn’t be able to tell how old the content is. Because it’s completely irrelevant. Of course, no sentence is written for eternity. Texts written from the heart are always a snapshot of a moment in time. A portrait of the era in which they were written. But We’re too young for true love has a different half-life than Miley Cyrus peed on the floor again. Although the latter does have its appeal, in a way. For some people, at least. What does that mean for this blog? I want it to become a colorful grab bag full of surprises again, with something wonderful for everyone. Whether you want to read a fascinating review of an apocalyptic film or the emotional thoughts of me traveling through Japan. Whether it’s about the enamored introduction of a new band or the painful experiences of growing up. Whether you just want to look at a few digital treasures or witness an epic story in the depths of Berlin. It’s important to me that the articles that appear on this website from now on are so great, so beautiful, so worth reading that they will still be relevant in one, two, five, maybe even ten years, without losing the rough edges that move me when I write. Cowboy Bebop will still be a cult classic in a decade. Haruki Murakami’s books will still be important in a decade. Texts about heartbreak will still inspire people in a decade to take control of their lives again - or at least to wallow in self-pity a little more beautifully. Specifically, this means, on the one hand, that the texts on this blog will be published without a visible date. Because it doesn’t matter when exactly they appeared. And, on the other hand, that the design is as minimalistic, spartan, and brutal as possible. Because nothing should distract from the content. To make a fresh start, I have completely archived this blog, wiped the server, and started again from scratch with a just do it mentality. Little by little, I will now select old articles, revise them, correct them, improve them, and polish them up so that I can publish them again. But of course, I will also regularly add new content and mix it in so that there is always something exciting to discover. With each new day, my digital diary will grow a little more. Slowly, steadily, and with joy. The irony of this text lies in two points, of course. Firstly, it is basically just another one of those repetitive pseudo-epic texts that praise the resurrection of this website and swear solemnly that everything will now be as it used to be. After all, that has always worked very well so far. And secondly, it denounces the transience of words and is itself one of those texts that, for reasons of content, will lose its relevance in no time at all. I simply want my blog to become a peaceful garden in the middle of an unmanageable digital jungle full of nonsense. Where everyone can have fun, whether they want to indulge in the profoundly formulated transience of being or just a few short notes from my chaotic mind. Everyone is welcome here, free to look around and take away the thoughts and opinions they consider important and right. Or not. I would be delighted to continue accompanying, entertaining, and inspiring you, my readers, on your turbulent journey through life. In my own way.