Enjoyer

Onism

The awareness of how little of the world you’ll experience, or how small your home is.

Mal de Coucou

A phenomenon in which you have an active social life but very few close friends-people who you can trust, who you can be yourself with.

Sonder

The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and thoughts.

Chrysalism

The amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof or window.

Altschmerz

Boredom with the same old issues that you’ve always had—the same flaws and anxieties you’ve had for years.

Ambedo

A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees rustling in the wind, the blades on a fan.

Kairosclerosis

The moment in which you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling.

Vellichor

The aroma of old bookstores, filled with thousands of ancient books, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated.

Nighthawk

A thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt that won’t go away.

Pâro

The feeling that no matter what you do is always somehow wrong.

Silience

The unnoticed excellence that carries on around you every day, hidden talents that go on ignored.

Fitzcarraldo

An image that sticks in your brain, and you have no idea how it got there.

Anecdoche

A conversation in which everyone is talking but nobody is listening, words are layered upon each other like papers.

Anemoia

Nostalgia for a time you’ve never known. Wishing to be living in another era.

Kenopsia

The atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet—a school hallway in the evening, an unlit office on a weekend, vacant fairgrounds, the afterimage.

Jouska

A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head, a debate, a conversation, something where you can connect more deeply with people than in reality.

Lachesism

The desire to be struck by disaster – to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire

Exulansis

The tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it.

Rubatosis

The unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.

Mauerbauertraurigkeit

 but maybe one day we will meet again and i’ll have a conversation with you again and you’ll still be smiling and laughing and shining and i’ll still feel happy and free and maybe it’ll mean something to you too and you won’t be thousands of miles away and maybe one day our hands will touch or our bodies wil collide and it won’t be the kind of thing that turns your whole world upside down or makes you wanna settle down but it’ll be nice and we’ll be happy and it’ll mean everything just for a moment.

Each sunrise signifies a beginning and every sunset signifies an end. Take your time to breathe, to feel, and to perceive what’s occuring around you.

Your life is in motion, don’t get left behind. Start doing things you love, cultivate your passion, tell someone special that you love them.

Life’s tremendously short for doubts and self-hatred. Lay your head and cry, raise your head in protest, and don’t forget to keep it high.

Do what you need to do to make yourself happy, but don’t you ever forget to live the life you’re molding. It’s yours and yours alone to live.

I feel the beat in the city streets

Hearts pressing against their chest, rattling the walls, prying open prison bars, joining the pounding of feet

Steady steps marching to the drum, grabbing bayonets and torches, crying out for any left

Whispers rise into battle cries just trying to drown out the screams

Crowns don’t stay long on tyrants heads

Today I checked for flagged posts again. And that brought me back to my beginnings here on tumblr. Back then Riverdale hasn’t been yet, not as TV show, and it would be many years before somebody came up with the idea to make one. It have been different fandoms I’ve written fore back in the days.

I’ve been good. I’ve been an actually good writer.

It’s a weird thing to say about yourself but it was all the more surprising to realize that this, this great text, that was you and it was good and what the fuck? To sit there, proof before you that you did in fact write this and you can’t connect it to you because the quality is a lot higher than you’ve always thought it to be.

What happened to my writing?

As much as I can realize this is honestly goody, maybe not perfect but really good, as much I know it isn’t as good anymore.

Reading those old texts from a younger me I am so … impressed by the creativity and passion that lies within the texts. German or not, they are great.

And maybe that’s the point.

Looking back many things have been different. I didn’t have several great breaks in my writing. I haven’t been to a therapy and I haven’t lost as much yet. I had a secure staff of people around me even when they sometimes changed and I certainly haven’t vitnissed so much violence yet.

They say loss makes you more creative. And yes it does give you so many stories to write about. And yet for me it always meant closing up, detaching for security.

And somewhere along that I did what I tried to prevent, I broke.

My writing is a telltale of that. Where once the passion and love for my surroundings were is now the cold lock I installed. Where once I fluidly wrote out highly emotional passages I find the emotion is exactly what is lacking.

I don’t have a model of close relationships anymore. I have models of destruction and pain and loss. But a story doesn’t work with nothing to fight for.

My real life is just the same. Most of the time I ask myself what I am supposed to fight for.

And yet my writing is so important and healing to me. All the things I wouldn’t understand looking at my life I will understand analyse my writing. And whenever I feel dead and start to write, no matter how frustrating it is to see the lack in it, the editing and improving of an emotionless text, reminds me how that worked. Where the emotions should be and that they are in fact normal. Okay. Right.

So write. Don’t stop writing. Never stop writing. Violence, loss, strong pain regardless if it’s emotional or physical or both, it tears you down constantly. That crazy, dangerous way. Silently. Sneakingly. And when it is far too late you realize: ‘Fuck I thought I fought well, I am going. And secretly it broke me all the same.’

Because it does.

Please, if you are in those situations find ways to escape them. There won’t be another way to keep you safe. You might think you are strong, you will endure it a bit for whatever kind of reason and then break free. You won’t. You can’t. You’re not doing good. You are not fighting. You are just breaking the slow way.

So please just find a way out. This is literally the only thing that helps you.