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We seemed so similar for so long The same in everything that was important  Oh my love we were so wrong Were we blind for what we did not want to see?  Where you pull I push  And what could have been a harmony  At first felt like a rush  Fell apart  We ripped the door out its angles  Part by part  Talk by talk  When you are cold I feel fire burning  You were warming up at first  I could see you melt I was cooling down   Regulated by your rationality  Now you tell me you hate the fire Are afraid  And the flames go higher  When your eyes turn cold  I was your yang and you were my ying  But we were missing the dots  Were slowly spiraling  Away

Words are not enough, you need to be hugged and drunk and crying at the stairs of the art academy at 3 in the morning on a tuesday.  You need to sit there with all your guilt and all your pain that you feel like you are not allowed to feel.  With your friends and their pain that they are pushing away, that they think they are not allowed to feel.  Sometimes words are not enough to soothe your soul, sometimes it needs a cigarette and mild trespassing.  The times we are living in are eating us alive. My Feed is not the monster but a window into its stomach. It has been eating people alive for centuries.  Has there ever been no war?  What have we created for ourselves?  You sit next to me and start crying and I feel more sane. If you cry maybe I can too someday. If you cry I feel less alone, less insane. If you cry it is still worth it to cry for it, isn't it.  I can care for you now. The world becomes your pain, something I can phantom, something I ...

  It was a good morning.  A pigeon cuddled up on my depression gray flat roof.  The night was calm for a saturday.  I neither got pissed or puked on. I call this a win. And a first.  The sun has risen and with the pigeon leaving I am warming up the little engines. Make all the little wheels turn in synchronization with Fredderick, the clock who is always slightly late. Ever so slightly that no one notices until they missed their train. If you ever missed your train at munich central station it might have been Freddericks fault.  He has been slacking off for years now without consequences. Probably because he makes the trains look more on time, or because in the age of smartphones and smartwatches and smartasses few people pay attention to a dumb clock crowned with bird poop.  He gets to sleep in on sunday mornings. I don´t. For some reason the humans still need paper tickets printed.  My theory is that they have not caught up yet with all their sm...

  I used to draw, paint in vivid colors. About the world, the inner and the outer ones, things I found beauty in, everything.  Drawing enabled a sense of romance for the mundane, an excitement in the boring, the smooth flow of watercolor gave directions in a tumbling reality. A reality that was often tumbling, rarely stable, being in your early twenties, ever changing relationships,  jobs, people come and go, stability comes and goes, commitments are fleeting, hearts are vulnerable, the paint dries quickly.  For the longest time I was the source of my own distress, my immediate existence, identity. Living as a queer individual, healing my personal trauma, improving my own self, caring about my people, my inner circle.  Already enough to worry about, enough to fuel my creativity. Enough to keep me occupied, sometimes over occupied.  My Paintings were a reflection of my reality, inspired by people and connections.  My people and my connections. Before al...

Three years ago I made the decision to quit university.  To quit Electronic Engineering to pursue writing.  Of course, one need to eat and live somewhere so I also started working.  Now, I established myself in IT, as an admin, did an apprenticeship, maintain servers for a living and killed of my dreams by staring into a screen for eight hours straight everyday. But one needs to live.  One needs a real job.  A handful of poems and stories made it out of my brain since then, scattered over a few vacations and rainy days.  Maybe it is time to publish them, to write more, to simply start?  As unprofessional as possible. Doing something is better than doing nothing. Spelling is commonly overated. So is punctuation.  Writing a blog that noone will read is better than obsessing over that novel you might never write.  A fair warning: This will be chaos. I have no idea what I am doing (who does really?) and this might not even take off.  But may...