A fortnight ago I had a dream that still amazes me with its solemn clarity and propheticity. Despite the fact I rarely remember the dreams I have dreamt, this one caught my attention greatly.
It was an exquisitely colourful autumn. Thick layers of maple leaves were covering soiled paths, which disappeared into the bustle of nature's carnivale. Although the park warden had carried out his tasks with extreme care, the rain had managed to bring all his work into naught. Hence, what I could see while sitting a bit qualmishly on an old hardwood bench was a fastly devilising poetry.
Someone had strongly advised me to be there, in the ancient park of the Talkhof castle. Regardless of that, when I tried to rack up my strength in order to remind myself why and how I had got there, I perceived an image of a seven-year-old boy who had been sent, against his own will, to a soulless theatre hall to experience something extraordinary for the first time in his life. All I heard were leaves quaking in the rain and the Pedja river gurgling behind me. It was a murky, hazy night. Only a lonely lantern emitted light from the distance.
Franz Bieberkopf had just been released from Tegel.
Suddenly I saw an old man slowly yet earnestly coming along the wide path that branched off right in front of me. Had it been an ordinary situation, I would have thought he's just a pauper reaching out for noble generosity. But something deep inside me kept saying, "The show is beginning! The show is beginning!", which is why I knew since his emergence that his existence was the only reason why I was out there in the dark. Old man's face was extremely pale, untouched by his white wiry hairs. First I thought his crooked back and frontward aslant head were signs of a long necessitous life. However, the nearer he came, the more I realised that his stance was mainly influenced by something intentional. The fact that he didn't seem to notice me ogling at him at all caused uncertainty and suspicion in me, so that my glance was even more strongly nailed at him. Even though I couldn't see his eyes, I knew precisely who the old man was.
The silverwhite moon revealed itself for the first time that night.
The surroundings had slowly fallen apart for me. I felt nothing. I thought of nothing. I perceived nothing but the old man who had already passed me by and was slowly hovering away. Suddenly I felt a flame burst in my stomach, and I knew I had to do something. A fraction of a second later I heard myself desperately crying out for him, "Look at me! I said, look at me!" I had stood up, my forehead was watery - it had begun raining again. But the old man continued his walk just as he had appeared, leaving me behind into the wilderness of solitude.
It was an exquisitely colourful autumn. Thick layers of maple leaves were covering soiled paths, which disappeared into the bustle of nature's carnivale. Although the park warden had carried out his tasks with extreme care, the rain had managed to bring all his work into naught. Hence, what I could see while sitting a bit qualmishly on an old hardwood bench was a fastly devilising poetry.
Someone had strongly advised me to be there, in the ancient park of the Talkhof castle. Regardless of that, when I tried to rack up my strength in order to remind myself why and how I had got there, I perceived an image of a seven-year-old boy who had been sent, against his own will, to a soulless theatre hall to experience something extraordinary for the first time in his life. All I heard were leaves quaking in the rain and the Pedja river gurgling behind me. It was a murky, hazy night. Only a lonely lantern emitted light from the distance.
Franz Bieberkopf had just been released from Tegel.
Suddenly I saw an old man slowly yet earnestly coming along the wide path that branched off right in front of me. Had it been an ordinary situation, I would have thought he's just a pauper reaching out for noble generosity. But something deep inside me kept saying, "The show is beginning! The show is beginning!", which is why I knew since his emergence that his existence was the only reason why I was out there in the dark. Old man's face was extremely pale, untouched by his white wiry hairs. First I thought his crooked back and frontward aslant head were signs of a long necessitous life. However, the nearer he came, the more I realised that his stance was mainly influenced by something intentional. The fact that he didn't seem to notice me ogling at him at all caused uncertainty and suspicion in me, so that my glance was even more strongly nailed at him. Even though I couldn't see his eyes, I knew precisely who the old man was.
The silverwhite moon revealed itself for the first time that night.
The surroundings had slowly fallen apart for me. I felt nothing. I thought of nothing. I perceived nothing but the old man who had already passed me by and was slowly hovering away. Suddenly I felt a flame burst in my stomach, and I knew I had to do something. A fraction of a second later I heard myself desperately crying out for him, "Look at me! I said, look at me!" I had stood up, my forehead was watery - it had begun raining again. But the old man continued his walk just as he had appeared, leaving me behind into the wilderness of solitude.
1 comment:
An old guy that does not make
eye-contact???
Have we met a la Morpheus?
No, we ain't.
Stay on groovin' safari,
Tor Hershman
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