A Summer Smile Comes Not Without a Rock
The first azure skies come with a rolling thunder to Berlin. At first, the spotted patterns of the heaven seem harmless, and a deep purple blue colored cloud blows over without a single drop, making room again for the vacant airs of summer. But within minutes new waves of foaming waters above, now accompanied by the fresh smell of moist winds, and sharp, shiny silver stabs of lightning, cut across the rooftop horizon of the city, fast and dangerous but on the slow beat of crawling thunder.
As the heaven closes like a grand stage behind a blackened curtain, the rolls of cleaving light repeats itself faster and faster, like a tiring day forgetting to keep pace, but still more filled with expectation than fulfillment. A summer smile comes not without a rock. The light now breaks through the window’s glass, penetrates the inner sanctuary, and light burst back out, answering the call of lone television sets, of gruesomeness and splendour of a flattened, hollow world.
As one gets used to the threatening spectacle, used to the outset before the slaughter. The mother flash in the sky is echoed by a thousand baby bulbs, softly repeating the light telegrams like a baby muttering the words after its parent, from behind the darkened homes. The spectacle is immensely intensive and the immensity tremendously beautiful.
Mental Suicide
For a second, the option of going back to the Netherlands entered my mind. The thought is revulsive and disturbing. I could never live again in the Netherlands and reverse my objectives. In order to define oneself, in the mid years of one’s youth, Amsterdam is a city with great possibilities. But the possibilities are dried up after an episode of almost ten years. Maybe, I am too thirsty of a spirit to be absorbed by my surrounding. The conditions serve a purpose, but the purpose may never serve the conditions, and so I needed to detach myself again. And how could I dig a hole in that same ground and plant the same seed, whose roots where extracted already? How could I tell a man to crawl who has learned to walk? I happily look towards a home coming, to taste the fertile mould of new Amsterdam, where I can freshly dig for nutrician for my soul. The thought to return, however naive it sprang from the unpenetrable unconsciousness, was a degradation of thought. How can I be hospitalized in a home that I have left, revisit the nest that I flew from, other than to die? In the last two years, life in the Netherlands has become synonymous to me with mental suicide.