They say after you lose a love or a relationship is ended it takes an average of half the time you had toghether to get over it.
So, if you’ve been with someone for 6 years it will take you 3 to forget them and so on…
Now, I lived with my big love for almost 3 years.
This is exactly two years ago, and my guts are still ripping apart every time I think about you. I am over you, or so I thought – but I still miss you like crazy sometimes. My home is here, but you’ll always be my one crazy love that would have never worked out anyway.
How can I miss a place so much? Or does the half-time rule only apply to human beings and not to cities? Hmm.
On a sidenote: have you ever noticed how 90’s SATC is?
At this point in time, you are my every thought – every breath I take stirs up a million buzzing insects in my stomach. Only when I am asleep in your arms do they ever calm down.
Every happy song is about you.
You have no idea who I am, but you smile at me like it’s ok. You smile when I smile, you smile when I snap, you smile when I cry.
I miss you when you go to the fridge to get me something to drink.
I’m a stupid kid and I don’t mind at all.
Sometimes good things happen when you go back to that outdated thing called myspace…remember the time?
Anyway, not that long ago I went back, actually just to see if deleting my account had worked. Of course it hadn’t so I checked my profile and found about 2 Million e-mails in my inbox, most of them about winning a 500$ Macy’s giftcard.
But one simply said: “Cupcake” in the subject-live, so of course I opened it.
It was written by Dea from Vectorink, who I’d never heard of before, saying she liked this picture she found on the Cherrymuffin website and whether she could use it.
Feeling flattered, of course I said yes and this is how it turned out.
I love it, all of my friends want it blown up for their wall and I am happy about a last minute christmas gift for myself…
So. Methinks if you like this modern take on a classic pin-up motive, you should check www.vectorink.de!
You are just a ghost now.
I don’t remember what you look like anymore, nor what your kisses felt like.
All there is is a ghostly, see-through silhouette of how much I loved you.
When I really want to, I can go back and the silhoutte becomes less sheer.
My heart stopped beating for an instant when I first laid eyes on you, this much I know.
I saw there was something dark surrounding you, but you were shining right through it and pulled me in.
The memory is flashes of war, salty sea breeze – humidity in the air.
The smell of linen and Cuban food. Punk music. Soft carpet.
We made love on that carpet and my life could have ended right there.
I can’t recall the sensation of your touch.
The dark took you over. In it, you disappeared.
You held my hand through it, and I tried to pull you out.
There was a night when I layed on your chest for hours and cried.
It seemed as though the tears brought you back, if just for a little bit.
For a while, my heart was as ghostly as you are now.
Ich träume von alten Zeiten. Zeiten lange bevor ich lebte. Ohne sie persönlich zu kennen, habe ich so große Sehnsucht nach ihnen, dass ich manchmal weinen oder herumspringen möchte, wenn ich das Gefühl habe, ein kleines Stückchen dieser Zeiten erahnt zu haben.
Ich träume von Häusern, den Wohnungen in ihnen und den Menschen, die in den Wohnungen lebten. Ich träume von ihren Möbeln, ihren Tischen und Tellern, den Gläsern, aus denen sie tranken und den Kleidern, die sie trugen.
Ich träume mir die schönsten Düfte von Braten und lavendelgestärkten Tischdecken.
Ich träume von Existenzen voller Liebe und Kummer, von Armut und Reichtum, von spielenden Kindern, sich liebenden Paaren und sterbenden Greisen.
Wenn ich durch meine Stadt laufe, meine Strassen, dann möchte ich die Häuser berühren.
Ich möchte sie anfassen und herzen und sie bitten, mir alles zu erzählen. Mich einzulassen und mir zu zeigen, was sie alles schon gesehen haben.
Ich möchte sie fragen, ob sie ihre alten Bewohner vermissen und ob sich vielleicht zwischen den alten Holzbohlen noch ein kleiner, verloren gegangener Ring versteckt.
Das war schon immer so, seit ich mich erinnern kann.
Leider antworten sie nur manchmal, und immer sehr leise ins Jetzt.
Manchmal träume ich auch von vielleicht bald, wenn das Damals, das Jetzt, das Du und das ich irgendwie zusammengefunden haben.
Wie gerne würde ich bei Kerzenlicht mit einem Teller Suppe in einer dieser alten Stuben sitzen, die vergilbten Wandkacheln streicheln und Dir sagen, dass ich Dich liebe.
Ich wünsche mir einen großen Holztisch und ein Bücherregal, voller wunderbarer kleiner Originalausgaben und getrocknete Kräutersträuße, die von der Decke baumeln.
Ich möchte abends auf Dich warten, eingerollt in meine Decke, lesend – und mich freuen, wenn Du endlich wieder bei mir bist.
Du würdest mir zuhören, während Du isst, und lächeln über die Dinge, die ich herausgefunden und geschrieben habe.
Die Katze würde schnurrend um unsere Füße streichen und wir würden zusammen heißen Kakao aus Zinnbechern trinken. Unser Sofa wäre blau und klein, so dass wir nur eng umschlungen darauf liegen könnten und obwohl wir beide kein Französisch können, würden auf dem Plattenspieler Chansons laufen.
Wenn ich dir meine Geschichten erzähle, würdest Du schmunzeln und sie mögen, weil Du in einer anderen, ganz ernsten Welt lebst, in der es nicht nach Braten und Lavendel riecht.
Manchmal würdest Du mich nicht verstehen und Dir wünschen, dass ich nicht so verschroben wäre und das gleiche Parfum benutzte wie Deine Großmutter.
Ich würde mir manchmal wünschen, dass Du nicht so groß und gutaussehend wärst, aber Swing tanzen könntest und wüsstest, dass Jugendstil nichts mit Teenagersein zu tun hat.
…you have been so sick all week that you had to cancel your trip to Mexico for your friends wedding.
You wake up at 7.26 am, wondering why you did, then turn around again and sleep a little longer. Because it’s saturday.
When you eventually wake up, you’re craving coffee and taking all the time in the world to get ready because you’re feeling better and maybe you’ll even buy a couple of christmas presents – because it’s saturday.
Oh shit it’s saturday, and you realize why your subconscious woke you up so early: Christmas Market on your street.
Your car: also on your street.
Towed: probably.
So you speed up the process of getting dressed and casually run down the stairs, thinking that there is no way on earth this can be good for your health and that this alternative christmas thingie is all sorts of wrong – and, looking fab with your Ray-Bans on, you take a quick look to the left, where there is no car…especially not your own.
Instead there is a booth where a greasy-haired Prenzlauer Berg mama is selling hideous self-knitted beanies no one would ever want to wear, partly because of an imminent danger of catching fleas.
You turn right, under the suspicious eyes of the eco-friendly chistmas people, and walk towards the coffee shop.
You stand in line for at least ten minutes until you get your latte.
Meanwhile you ponder whether it’s a shit day and you should just go back to bed and where on earth you’re gonna get the money to bail your car out. You realize that this is where the refund for your flight is gonna go. Fuck that cute little dress you wanted to buy for christmas.
But then you get your coffee and figure that this is typical and actually quite funny.
You have been towed the second time in a couple of months.It’s your fault, despite the fact that they should have to get your personal permission to block the entire street.
You think about the meaning of the word ‘towing’ in German and realize that you ‘towed’ someone two months ago and have been the happiest girl in the world ever since.
Give and take.
When life gives you lemons, get out your shot glass and pour a tequila.
Smile!
I have finished the vampires. All 2000something pages of them. I basically broke my own reading record, finishing Breaking Dawn within 30 hours, interrupted only by going to class and the need to sleep at some point. That is just completely insane. But now I am done, Edward has been kinda boring ever since he became a babydaddy, and it’s snap back to reality.
With that distraction gone I am reminded to study again and also I’m slowly realizing that there is someone very far away who I like much better than the bloodsucker.
So. World, you have me back, no need to worry. It’s been a long day and I am mildly sleep-deprived, so I guess I’ll grab a less addictive book and snuggle up on the couch.
I can’t stand people who don’t read books. No, actually I have to rephrase. I hate people who don’t read books but pretend they do.
There are certain signs someone is a non-reader who can’t own up to the fact he prefers watching TV… one of them is that, once the subject comes up, they will answer the question of their favorite book with: Paulo Coelho, Warrior of Light.
That’s the moment when I start puking. Effing A, if you had read anything else after your mom bought you a copy of Dr. Seuss or “Where the wild things are” this crap wouldn’t be your favorite book. Actually ‘Where the wild things are’ is pretty awesome. Stick to that, if anything.
You know you haven’t read anything else in years and the person at the airport bookstore told you Paulho Coelho was fantastic, so you bought it and read it at the beach between margaritas. I SEE THROUGH YOUR B***S***!
People say it’s important literature – but really.
Believe a major bookworm when I say: Read a murder mystery if you, on your next vacation, decide to pick up a book because there is no TV on the beach. I will give you more credit for that. And it will be more fun that new-age philosophy.
I’m not saying it’s horrible, I hold respect for anyone who can write and finish a book and sell it , even if it’s a paperback novel or a soap opera script– but this is a pretty makeover of a self-help book. I just think it’s cheezy and pathetic – and the fact that a German Z-List singer has ‘Warrior of Light’ tattooed on he stomach and another soft-rock-with-a-female-singer band just released a song under the same name proves my point. ARGH.
Or maybe I’m just sarcastic.
I am lounging on my little island, the world famous green couch, between a hundred pillows waiting for me to rest my head on them.
My thoughts circle around the feeling I’ve been allowed to have these past couple of days: being exactly where I should be, on this little island, surrounded by people I love.
It was warm and cozy and an overall feeling of trust and comfort and accepting each other with all our flaws and nerves and whatnot…exactly the way home should feel.
I don’t have all that much family or at least not family ties and that’s why it means so much to me -
I am blessed to have you, darlings, and all the happier now that you made friends with my other friends.
Thank you for a fantastic weekend full of tea and food and fun!
It’s the last day of a way too short 12 1/2 week summer break ending in winter and finally my mind has calmed down enough to read again…
well…not really. I started Thomas Mann again and I couldn’t take it. I started Stieg Larsson and I am not as impressed as I hoped I would be.
But then, deep down in my treasure chest a.k.a. the bookshelf I spotted the forbidden book. Yes, forbidden. And I shall now share with you the story of the forbidden book.
Once upon a time I went to Dana, the keeper and seller of anything worth reading, and requested the book.
Shock showed in her face as tears started welling up in her eyes and she shook her head no. With a low voice, she told me what happened to her friend who read the forbidden book.
‘She was a literature maniac, I mean, a girl who would read Tolstoi for fun! Anything on the bestseller list she wouldn’t touch – until one day… one day…”. Her voice was breaking up now. “One day she started reading this…and…how can I put it…she got hooked. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t stop! It ruined her. Anna, I cannot give you this book, I cannot order it for you, if you want to start, do it, but I want nothing to do with it. And I beg you: please don’t read it!”
Anyone who knows me will confirm that despite my looks I am not a rebel. I do as I am told, I follow the rules, I stop at a red light even if there’s no traffic whatsoever.
But I couldn’t help it. On my school trip I passed by a bookstore and eventhough my bag was more than heavy enough, I had to go in.
I saw the book in all it’s paperback glory and I couldn’t resist any longer.
When I left the store I felt guilty. I wrapped it up in its plastic bag and hid it as best as I could underneath all my literature theory books, brought it home and put in in my shelf, untouched.
Until today.
With great guilt and shame I have to admit to you, my dear reader, that I have started reading Twilight today.
There is nothing you can do for me at this point. Let me go. Do not 12-step me. I will check myself into rehab when I’m done.
