this item of memory
Updated: Apr 24
I’m sad. Most of the time I manage to turn away from this topic. Not from the topic of sadness. But from the topic that makes me sad. I know exactly what I have to turn away from.
This morning it happened.
I ended up at the webcam at Puig Maria. That hill I always looked at, day or night, from ‘my’ special spot when I lived in Mallorca. The view from that hill allowed me to look over the little town I called my home - Pollença. The tears overcame me faster than I could expect. Oh, how badly I need to be there!
When my feet first stepped on that island’s ground, I was not aware that my roots grew into its soil. Silent, but sovereign, by intuitional knowing - this is where I belong. My brain cannot explain this. But I don’t need any logical explanation to know. It was never about logic. But always about knowing. Knowing without the need for explanations. Intuition - this is what my mother island taught me on a new level. Nowhere else I felt so joyfully me, so flowing, so self-aware and content. So light, yet grounded.
Oh yes, that ground.
Berlin always was a place I didn’t choose myself. With Berlin, I compromised, arranged myself with. Berlin is the place of lack, of demand, of neediness. It’s energy-sucking, pretending it’s something that it’s not. Berlin is trying, is work, is have-to. It may surprise many, but Berlin is not pleasure to me. Although this city - without a doubt - has a lot to offer, but that’s not for me. I need nature, I need simplicity, I need listening. Berlin is loud, very brainy, and quite technical. It’s hectic, busy, it’s quick. Everything is an issue that has to be discussed. No pause. Sometimes I feel puked, after being gagged along its stomach. Then I crawl into my home, my flat I created as an oasis from all the buzz. With dried palm leaves from Mallorca on my altar. Collected things that connect me with a feeling of nature.
But it’s only a glimpse. A hint, a peek, an idea. It’s like an item we take with us from home, to keep the memories. It’s pleasure and pain at once because it’s a permanent reminder of what we miss. And if you’re far from home for too long you can barely look at this item anymore. Because the memory is too painful. When you know you cannot return anyway, what is the point of missing? Without any perspective... We shove this item away, put it into a drawer, place it in a box, and close the lid. This morning my item fell into my lap like an old photograph you forgot in a book you just grabbed to read. Is Mallorca a place I can't return to, like the moment pictured in that photo? It often feels like this. It seems so far away.
Anyway, I know my missing is not for nothing.
I can't explain. I just know.
So I bear the pain