The End of the World
By now I had long since resigned myself to the fact that for months I could neither really laugh nor cry. I had degenerated into a feelingless phantom in this endlessly same world, drifting from party to party, from person to person, and yet no longer truly taking part. In life. Everything had decayed into the same everyday mush. No matter how hard I searched. And then I sit there and, in a single instant, everything changes. I do not see it. No explosion, no scream, no ending. Nothing. Only me and my head and some switch inside it that flipped. Suddenly. And that forces me to burst out of the ruined normality. Out into the night air, out of the loop that had me on repeat.
Then I stagger through the city with tears in my eyes. Not because of love. Or death. Or loss. Or wounded pride. Simply because, from one second to the next, something in me burned that I had long filed under “Lost.” I can’t cope anymore, don’t understand, wanted with all my might to cling to what was breaking me – and that now was gone. Drunk and confused I call my friends, demand an order, a watchword, some kind of reason. But no one can give me that, because no one recognizes the problem, neither I nor they nor anyone. What is my problem? So at five in the morning I write pseudo-depressive texts I want to toss, MacBook and all, into a dumpster and rip to shreds.
No playlist on earth can calm me at this forgotten hour, and so I have nothing left but to wait. Whether I’m perhaps just imagining it all. Playing at drama. Too much beer. Or too much human. Or too much darkness, looking at me with a question and shrugging toward the next sunrise. That, surely, will know what to do. Like a sad madman I now linger in my bed, rocking slightly back and forth. With this colorlessness in my gaze. Waiting for whatever may come. A sentence, a piece of information that will turn me into a furious fireball. So that at least I can still take part. In the destruction of my little universe. For in a single instant everything changes.