"You're just filth," you used to tell me. I always objected, but only for form's sake. It had to be true when my own mother said it.
Sometimes you even had prophetic visions: "Some day, you will suffocate in your own waste."
Filth. It was always important to you that you could eat off the floor at our place. Who would want that? Not off such an ugly floor. To you, my childhood fantasy of a picnic in the living room was also just filth. And silly, of course.
Everyone can spot the filth inside me. That is probably why I am living a lonely life. Sometimes I long for a playmate who would love to splash around with me in the mud.
In a wonderful Anne Tyler novel I stumbled over a great image for solitude: the heroine is leading a sad big dog on a leash wherever she goes, visible only to her. At the end of the story she can finally release him. What a cute story.
My loneliness is like a snake that I am carrying fat and heavy around my neck. It is choking me up tenderly. Sometimes it whispers into my ear. Mostly when I forget about it for instants. Then it feels offended and wants my immediate attention. It’s very good at that. I can hear it in my left ear - it almost feels as if it were in my head. "I am always here for you, you can rely on me. You surely do not need anybody else."
A few days ago I pulled through one of those bravery things and went to two events. At the beginning, everything is fine - there is lots of art to look at, and I’m good at small talk. But I was not paying attention and missed the moment to leave. Directly my throat started to feel tight. And the whispering began: "Look, beautiful couples and groups of friends wherever you turn. You think they don’t notice that you’re here all alone? That they don’t smile at you because they pity you? Well, I don’t like it here at all." So we went home.
Where to go next? Maybe here:
„You just have to get crazier.“ Pina Bausch
The sound of hope.