How time never goes by, but always right through
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Traces. There are years in our hands, not all of them anymore, some have flown away, but others way heavily, even the slight ones, they stay, dug in deep
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Do you remember?
We waded through the snow-soaked meadows, shivering, rejoicing, carrying spring within us, ready to burst out, grabbing everything, clenching our little fists around the bright day, throwing it high in the air ...
Then summer. The trout in the little stream, us on the boardwalk above, the doll dangling in one hand while the other threw pebbles into the water ... the sparkle around us and within us ... we ... our rosy skin ... our little sweaty summer hands ...
Do you remember? It's been a long time.
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Always and everywhere hands. Why are they so anchored in my memory? ...
Big hands, old hands, paper-thin wrinkled skin with brown spots, young hands, strong, dexterous, busy hands, sad hands, yes, those too, the tear-sad hands, and the comforting ones too ...
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We collected mushrooms and blueberries, mixed the dough, baked pancakes, squeezed lemons into the jug of spring water, secretly poured in double the portion of sugar, dipped our fingers into sweet life, licked them with our eyes closed ...
The heavy bedspreads, the creaking floorboards, the spiders in the corners, the scent of ... everything ... a lush bouquet of meadow flowers ... sun and night ...crickets chirping through the open window, dancing shadows on the walls, sleepily whispered plans for the next day ... vacation ... self-overlapping time ...
The buried treasure, the secret meetings in the treetops, the strong muscles, the young skin, the jumps, the hops, the races, the throws, the games, the adventures, the danger, the dreams, the deep sleep ...
Why that ... so long ago ... do you still remember?
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The cold hands, waxen, pale, with the nevermore in every fiber, silent on the white sheet, the cool room, the severed air, the no and the not and the cut off you
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The repetitions, the grids, the sharp edges, the boxes, the perpetual clock, the processes
the beautiful
the good
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My hands on the keyboard, my dancing fingers and the knowledge that lives in them, the lines in my palms and what they are talking about: that this is by no means everything
The never ending that creates the connection to the very first unconscious all-encompassing
The grip, the comprehension, the groping, the grasping, the letting again
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