they don’t love you like i love you

People say I’m sick because I can simultaneously leave the house and stay home. Memory is its own house. Leaving it means going into a different house. It’s not a contradiction to stay in one world while simultaneously leaving. He can make his entrance by withdrawing. He can be a patient and nonetheless remain a self. The patient’s name is Patrik. He sometimes refers to himself as the patient in his interior monologues. This is one of his survival strategies. Patrik’s personal pronoun is ich, the first person (and therefore most important) in a unique singularity. Third person is a form of salvation, since it’s unhealthy to always keep using that one good-natured little pronoun and conjugating all one’s verbs accordingly: ich habe, denke, esse, liebe, wasche, kaufe (I have, think, eat, love, wash, buy), all with the little e-tail at the end. That’s much too much monotony! No composer would allow his librettist to end all his lines with an e. Patrik often feels confined in a first-person prison. The key that can free him from this cage lies in his hand. Unlocking the door isn’t so easy for him. It hurts to stick that iron thing in the keyhole and twist it. A modern individual has to desire the opening. Opening hurts. Closing brings comfort.