Legends of Youth
When We Became the Past

No matter how far away we may find ourselves, in the crowded streets of New York, on the hot coasts of Australia or under the high ceilings of Berlin's old apartments, every now and then we return home. To our city. To a world in which time seems to stand still. And we feel superior. Because no one there had the courage to dare even come close to what we have achieved.

The streets of the small community are still the same ones we rode down on bikes as kids. Ran down. We know them inside and out. Every nook and cranny, every shortcut. We still dream of the time when these alleys were the veins of our childish existence. And every meter, no, every inch, is tainted with memories that wash over us at just the right moments.

As I walk down the main street on a sunny summer morning, not meeting a soul, my thoughts go wandering. They float up, over the city, they create a plan. Of the houses. Of the paths. Of the fields. And everywhere marks with souvenirs pop up, which pull me in with mental touch and play back to me once again what makes me as a human being.

How we broke into that trailer when we were twelve and used helium stolen from the fair to turn our voices into those of Mickey Mouse. How, when we were thirteen, we cried and called the ambulance because Maria had crashed into the fence of the open-air swimming pool while sledding and so much blood was streaming down her face that we had to throw up. How, when we were sixteen, we sat on the slide of the nearby playground and Paula pulled up her white shirt to insult the neighbor who had tried to beat us up with a shovel the day before, topless and waving her middle fingers around.

When I come to again, I stand on a small bridge a little outside the city. Close to the seemingly abandoned allotment gardens. The sun shines in my face, sweat runs down my forehead, and below me a small stream makes its way to the next village. I stare into the clear water and suddenly realize an inescapable truth that makes my heart heavy and brings tears to my eyes.

We ruled this place, made it shake, made it tremble. We passed through its gates at night, we kissed and ate and beat and cried and came and shouted and laughed and drank. Loudly. Energetic. Courageous. So that we may perpetuate ourselves. So that our deeds would still cause murmurs a hundred years from now. So that we could not die, even though we had long since passed away.

Our graffiti faded. Our legends silenced. Our markings erased. The generation that wreaks havoc in these streets today has no idea of what took place here years ago. What we risked. Who we touched. How many enemies we made and how many friends accompanied us. It doesn't matter to them. They don't care about our names. Our places. Our sorrows. Our songs.

And then we realize that we don't have a single reason to feel superior. Because we have accomplished nothing. Because nothing lasts. Neither in this place nor anywhere else. And that it doesn't matter at all how far away we go and what we experience. With whom we experience it. How often and how intensively we experience it. Because at some point we turn around. And none of this is there anymore.

Our memories only haunt the city as vague shadows. They have no effect, no desire. But they serve as proof that we have been replaced. By young people who consider us irrelevant and write their own legends in the places that served as a backdrop for our memories. And this is neither the first nor the last time.

But this generation will also return to this place someday. And they will stand on that bridge and they will cry and they will become aware of the fact that none of their actions, no matter how rad and passionate and dramatic, will result in eternity. That their youth is a copy of a copy of a copy. And that everything falls apart once they turn around.

All that remains as consolation is the eternal dream of doing something that no one before us has ever done. So we find ourselves in the crowded streets of New York, on the hot coasts of Australia or under the high ceilings of Berlin's old apartments. We don't think of a copied life, we believe in a unique one. That is what makes us strong. It is the only way not to lose our minds.

We go on. We fill the empty legends of our memories with new adventures and images and smells and tastes and sounds. And maybe next year we can return here again. To our city. To a world where time seems to stand still. And we feel superior. Because no one there had the courage to dare even come close to what we have achieved.

Wednesday, January 25, 2023