WHO AM I?

How much essence can you convey in a single message? Well, it does very much depend on the receiver. A single utterance may well inspire you or resonate within yourself into something unexpected indeed. It seems that through the things I write in this very peculiar phase of mine - stream of consciousness, as some kind-hearted beings called it - that I send a message to my future self. Somehow, when coming back to the words I have put together, I feel a very odd glimpse of comfort. Or maybe it is even relief?

Through my own words I get to understand, define and develop myself. A poem is a powerful way to channel creativity that could subvert my formal I. A poem is sympathetic to our daily struggles against unforgiving and ruthless truth. It embraces all our dreams as they are. A poem will not verify the validity of your feelings during the process of shaping it. Neither will it, when you listen to what it has to say after it is finished. A poem is a compassionate companion to what you think it is and to what you are, to what you want it to be and who you long to become yourself. A poem comes alive only out of love for imagination. A poem is at its happiest when impossible becomes reality.

My biggest success so far was when in between all the usual patched-up phrases a particularly cute one engendered itself before my eyes: "Be one of those whom the future comes to ask: What's the way?" I find a lot of satisfaction in this formulation. It is something you wouldn't say in a normal conversation. Why the hell should future suddenly become the Future, a vagabond wandering around. not sure herself where to go? No. In our stiff fact-based teeny-tinytalk this has no place. Better yet, why should you give anybody enough credit to be an authority who is consulted by the Future? Or is it that any of us can be asked by her one day what the course of action in the following second should be? The answer to these curious questions I do not dare to specify - there might be a lot of truthfull ones out there! Only a poem is a host crazy enough to facilitate a dispute of high enough degree of freedom and tolerance to allow for the creation of such thoughts. A poem in all its warmheartedness helped me answer a question that was boggling me for quite a bit: Whether we should have a goal in life at all.
Yes, I believe, we should have one: One whose completion is a reason to be proud.

I do regognize that my words may well be meaningless to you. If so, many factors must contribute to this being so. With all my deficiencies I may never be able to communicate to you that it's actually fun and sunny right there, right now, up there - in my mind. In any case, I refuse to specify crystal clear statements of what things are and what they are not. Truths are relative to me and have dual meanings. They depend on subatomic constellations. They exist in groups, start families. They live, they die. They exist, despite that they don't. All this in the same time. Good is not always good, you know, and - especially in a poem - it may well be quite maliciously evil! Pain may come from a punch or may herald your coming alive. And this time: For real. I know not of any other way to make present last into the future, extend into the past and transcend all our whimsical characterizations of reality that we create, other than to write.