random bullshit

Once you found what you’ve been looking for all your life it seems not really worth the effort. Or the trouble. Or the thinking you do, the things you wonder about, the insecurity you face every day. The inability to look behind ones words, thoughts, acts. Inability to look inside people’s heads, to realize their goals.

Will we never know what other people are about? 

Never thought it will be that difficult. It’s a simple choice, merely having impact on any events in the events of the next two weeks. And yet am I sitting in my room, among piles of clothes, waiting to be chosen or rejected. T-Shirts, sweaters, jeans, underwear, socks..What should I take, what should I leave behind? What do I need, what can I afford not to take on my trip? It’s not easy, knowing that there will be no way back, no exchange. The choice will be definite.

Thoughtless I am staring on my black bag. To countless countries he brought me and my clothes. Silent company, asking no questions and not criticizing my choice. Ready to support my choices, ready to carry my stuff. Reliable, big and  black. Part of my old and new life. Part of the past, part of the future. And more importantly: the transition.

Does it really matter what clothes do I take, as long as I take my bag? Does it really matter?

What good would my clothes be, if I had no bag to carry them?

What good would I be, what purpose would I have, if I didn’t have you?

Doubts. They slowly nourish from your heart, from your soul. Slowly eating your expectations, your hope, your dreams. Turning your soul dark and empty. Powerlessness and surrender are the daily visitors.

Doubts appear after a decision one made in the past. A difficult decision, maybe not at first sight. But important. The feeling it was wrong, the fear it was right.

What now? Forward, backwards? Can’t we just jump? Or are we too scared and prefer to be swallowed by emptiness and hollowness?

Einsam fegt der Wind durch das Feld. Leise, als würde er jeden Grashalm einzeln streicheln, ihn aufmuntern und Hoffnung geben. Zärtlich flüstert er sein schweigendes Lied für jene, die zuhören möchten. 

M atmet tief ein, schließt die Augen und ihre Finger greifen nach den Schneeglöckchen, sie umschlingt die Grashalme mit ihren Fingern und es kommt ihr vor als würde sie das Leben der Pflanze spüren, die Energie regelrecht aufsaugen. Der Tau tropft auf ihre Finger und der Geruch der Frische steigt ihre Nase empor. Im Hintergrund hört M die Vögel zwitschern, hört ihr vertrautes Singen. Langsam öffnet sie ihre Augen, die Kraft der Sonne blendet sie. Ein schwaches Blinzeln. Vögel. Starkes und kraftvolles Schwingen der Flügel. Stolz und elegant fliegen sie durch die Luft, ziehen ihre Kreise, verschwinden hinter den Bäumen. Neid.

“So, where do you come from?”, asks the taxi driver, taking a sharp right turn while lighting his cigarette. For some reason taxi drivers in Belgrade don’t really care as much about traffic rules as other people do, red lights are not always as red as they should be, stop signs are not that important. I think his name is Nešha, that’s at least what the nameplate says - right next to the Barça sticker, which looks quite old to me. “I’m from Luxembourg” I tell him, trying to ignore the folk music and the passenger who almost got hit by my new Serbian friend. The yellowish lights shine through the window as we’re crossing the the Branko bridge in direction of Zeleni Venac, the city center of Belgrade.

Belgrade, my new home for a couple of weeks by now. Even if I have the feeling of having settled in pretty well, there are still things that strangely amaze me. Just like Nešha, who just doesn’t give a damn. I think it’s some kind of Balkan mentality not to care too much, which - at least for me - is very impressive and also inspiring. This doesn’t mean that people are disrespectful towards each other, it’s quite the opposite. People seem to be very kind and helpful, they try to communicate with you even if they’re struggling. I appreciate this, as my Serbian is pretty bad, I’m glad if I manage to order something in the bakery. But this will improve during time, I guess.

“We are there, it is 570 Dinar”, Nešha tells me in his broken english, looking for change in his pocket as I give him a 1000 Dinar bill. I feel so rich in Belgrade, I always have so many bills, even if they’re not worth that much. Atleast I’m spared with coins. Nothing is more bothering than coins. I get out of the taxi, heading towards the republic square, passing at least 1000 exchange offices. Serbians love exchange offices.  If they could, they would all own their own private exchange office. Or a bakery. After a couple of minutes walking - the center of Belgrade is pretty small actually - I’ve reached the statue of Prince Mihailo on the horse.

Our meeting point…