Enjoying nature and photography.
Bouldern? Witzig!
Abwaschen? Nix.
Im Schlafsack frieren? Nix.
Zum fünften Mal dieselbe Kiste aus dem Kofferraum holen weil man jedes Mal eine Zutat vergisst? Nix!
Kurvige Straßen entlang düsen? Witzig.
Aprikosensaft? Witzig?
Katalonier auf Englisch ansprechen? Nix!
Von Waldkäuzen wachgehalten werden? Witzig.
Von Hunden wachgehalten werden? Nix.
Zusammen weiterhin ins Ungewisse fahren? Witzig!
As a kid I had a whole collection of matchbox cars. My favorite one was a blue police cruiser which had blinking lights — simply wonderful. I sometimes still miss it. Together with my brother, I could play for hours and hours. They were like a large playground for us, offering endless possibilities. Among other things, we developed an intricate car racing simulation; we might even find our old notes in some hidden folder. And within this world of cars, my younger me also found meaning. At least for a while.
I guess at some point everyone who writes, writes about writing. There are endless lyrics on writing lyrics, or poems about their own creation (link). It seems an evident topic. After all, the process of creation is what characterizes any practiced craft. When I started this blog I thought I would get around this topic; but apparently I am not. Back at home when time was sparse, writing often felt easy. Accepting something with its imperfections was fine. But now, as there is seemingly endless time and no obligations, no word seems to fit in its place, no sentence bears a clever idea, and no text seems satisfactory. Simultaneously, the same happens with my photographic journey: infinite opportunities, but no direction. No purpose. No meaning.
And so, for now, I keep exploring the large playground that I’ve found in these creative crafts.
A retrospect, time to reflect: birds, poems, and photography of calm nature, IT mixed in, sometimes even a unique spin. I recollect all memories left from my past, or simply write what’s deep within. An introspect, time to dissect: I‘d like to be an architect of words with charm and wit, that bite and split the readership in two, to reconnect them right again. I’d like to describe mundane life as if it carries weight, as if it’s great, to resonate with other minds.
Family discussions are a precious gift: You can openly express yourself without any worries. Worries of being too open, too honest, or too unreasonable — they know you anyway. You can argue aggressively without having to fear ruining a friendship. And you can be a careful listener that provides encouragement and guidance to your loved ones. After all, if you’re open to have your opinion seriously challenged, you might learn something new about yourself after all.
Orange beaks pass through the snow in search for food they plough the empty meadow, search for food, slow, graceful steps, fierce attitude.
Family discussions are a precarious venture: Bogged down relationships and intimate bonds clash with a mutual lack of goodwill and little restraint in abrasively advertising ones beliefs. The ones you’re nearest to might be the ones who are the least likely to share your worries and fears. Or they might be the ones who possess a seemingly divergent set of values. Each advent of a disagreement triggers the same repeating patterns, and all ways forward appear to be blocked; like a wall of snow, smudging an unequivocal truth, close but unattainable.
Sometimes, there is the necessity for change and, sometimes, there is the desire for change. I love my city, the very city I came to ten years ago for my studies. The very city I stayed in, because of all the people I got to know and because of all the places I became attached to. A city which offers more bicycle tracks than any other city I’ve seen, a city which hosts wonderful buildings, large churches, a rich university life, and extensive nature all around. But now is the time for change.
And, thus, I am walking my oh so familiar path around the lake, one last time. I am visiting the Old Botanical garden, one last time. I am meeting people, temporary acquaintances, friends who are not familiar enough to stay in touch with, one last time. I am riding down the pedestrian zone, unlawfully, one last time. I am eating at my favorite place, I am visiting the climbing gym, I am enjoying the sun on our balcony, I am admiring the birds, the squirrels, the gray-legged geese, one last time.
We are taking a break and set forth to seek new shores, for the first time.
A glimpse of time that passes by, down at the river, here I lie. Startled starlings high above. Each second fleeting, why are we longing for the neat deceit of endless time, eternity?
Trees shifted by a gentle breeze of grace, at ease the silent world around, clouds drifting by, unbound and free, three cranes agree with distant calls: a potpourri of nature's soul.
Spring music; played by little bells in white, a well of warmth despite cold air. Each year they do appear, to persevere where orange-colored skies collide.
Punkt im Dunkeln