I am as much as anybody else

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Woman with corona mask

Photo: Maximiliane Egli / Getty Images / Westend61

Welcome back to eternal Sunday.

Only in the dark.

And cold.

On days that don't want to end, when you don't even dream of the sea or a time when the world was apparently in order and gets angry because nothing seems to be in order.

Where one is tired and believes that only one would experience the humiliation of impotence.

And time would only feel like a mixture of B-movie and constant shitstorm to yourself.

It helps me from time to time to fly next to or above me, to see myself, to enlarge the section, and then - to become part of a large group.

People.

Crazy things that fail again and again.

Those who are greedy in a struggle for survival, which can be brutal and unjust.

That are always great.

So sometimes I manage to imagine that most of them are like me.

Overstrained, overtired, overwhelmed, I try to avoid the C word, every serious conversation ditto.

What I have to say sounds empty and is being uttered by billions of people right now.

And I try to remember what made my life run.

Previously.

And by the way: none of this took place on the internet.

And none of it had to do with arguments.

There were always friendly doctors and nurses who patched me up and healed me, who laughed at my stupid jokes while I lay around in a heavily armed hospital and healed to myself.

Or the people from the Peng! Collective, with whom I was allowed to do beautiful things.

Who invested a lot of time and code to start something great like the Golden NFT project, just to help others.

I think of my first contact with Switzerland, away from Glencore and banking scandals.

When I saw a police officer who covered a man who was probably drunk at a tram stop with his coat.

I think of choirs, maybe you are now thinking: Ok, now she's completely through and talking with her hand, and yes, that too, but while I think about how lucky I've been in my life, I keep falling Choirs one.

And I hate singing.

And choirs too, actually.

But singing people who hang around outside somewhere in winter to get money for people who are really fucked up, to choirs who sing together to simply put the audience in a good mood and to forget themselves for moments, to dissolve and to close to become something bigger than you are.

Like those men who once appeared on a show of mine and made me cry.

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Sibylle Berg

GRM: Brainfuck.

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Publisher: KiWi-Taschenbuch

Number of pages: 640

Publisher: KiWi-Taschenbuch

Number of pages: 640

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And yet it is paradoxical.

That it is so easy to get angry, but that you almost exclusively remember the pleasant moments.

The most embarrassing times in my memory are the times that I have spent in anger at the incomprehensible insult my uniquely valuable person has received from someone who has been my uniqueness.

I think of swollen veins on my forehead, a trembling feeling of being outside of myself and the feeling of nothingness that one could actually accept as a given.

Or to put it another way: I am as much as everyone else. Like those who have just been brought to the Polish border as living reprisals, who have drowned in the sea, who have frozen to death and starved to death. But I'm still there. It always sounds like kitsch if one violates every system-immanent rule of continuous competition, cynicism and quick malice. Strange. Perhaps there is something wrong with the system that only rewards negative things with attention and has outsourced friendliness to platforms and reduced it to clicks.

Dissolving in the awareness of being part of billions who are all dreaming the same thing (well, ok, a few dream of populating the universe, but they don't count) is the only thing that helps me not to despair of the world which may not be as terrible as it sometimes seems to me.

And that the people I am part of want exactly what I do (except for a few).

They want you to be nice to them.

You are scared in the night.

Actually, you are more often nice than you are not.

And they are at a loss.

So back to the news.