Ich wache auf in einem Zimmer, das nicht ganz meins ist,
my hoodie ligt over de stoel, als wäre ich schon länger hier.
Haar moeder roept „Frühstück“ aus der Küche
and I freeze like ga ik nu oder bleib ich hier
Ich komme rein und lächle leise
„Guten Morgen“ a bit too slow
Haar vader knikt und sagt hello
und ich denk okay, dit gaat zo
Wir reden halb Deutsch, halb Englisch, halb Nederlands
ik spring einfach zwischen allem hin und her
Ein Satz beginnt ganz ruhig auf Deutsch
und endet irgendwo in the air
„Wil je koffie“ yes please danke
„Suiker ook“ ja just a bit
Ich lache immer eine Sekunde zu spät
maar somehow I still fit
Sie sagen nichts, wenn ich stolpere
geen blik die zegt je bent fout
Nur kleine Witze, warm und leicht
und ein Platz für mich, ganz vertraut
Ich habe tausend kleine Kämpfe gehabt
mit woorden, mit Mut, met mij
Maar hier hoef ik niet perfect te zijn
hier laten ze me vrij
Soms vergeet ik een woord
und wechsel schnell ins English rein
Und ihre moeder zegt „Ist schon gut“
und lächelt so, als wär das fein
Am Tisch sind drei Sprachen zuhause
en ik zit daar ergens tussenin
Niet helemaal van vroeger
maar ook niet meer alleen
Und vielleicht ist das genug für jetzt
kein großes Ziel, kein fester Plan
Nur dieses leise Gefühl beim Frühstück
dat ik misschien hier blijven kan
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 4:45 AM UTC
I wake up in the same old room,
the air is thick and still.
The morning doesn’t ask me much,
just if I have the will.
They tell me that I’m still too young,
like time is on my side.
But I feel like I’ve fought a thousand wars
with nowhere left to hide.
I’ve won enough to keep me here,
but not enough to heal.
Some victories don’t feel like wins,
they just teach you how to feel.
The mirror knows the shape I wear,
but not who I once was.
My eyes look older than my years,
like they’ve seen too much because
I carry scars you cannot see,
they sit beneath my skin.
A quiet proof of every fight
I somehow lived within.
I speak less now, I hear it all,
but nothing settles in.
The voices feel so far away,
like echoes wearing thin.
I tell myself it will move on,
but I don’t think it’s true.
And somewhere deep inside my chest,
it all comes back to you.
If I could choose another path,
I don’t know what I’d do
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 4:36 AM UTC
Ich sitze am Tisch und höre zu.
Alle sprechen schnell Deutsch.
Ich verstehe ein paar Wörter,
aber nicht alles.
Ich nicke oft und sage:
„Ja, genau“ oder „Ah, okay.“
Manchmal passt es,
manchmal nicht.
Eine Person erzählt etwas Langes.
Alle lachen.
Ich lache auch,
aber ich weiß nicht warum.
In meinem Kopf denke ich auf Englisch:
“What did they just say?”
Aber ich frage nicht.
Ich will nicht stören.
Ich baue mir meine eigene Geschichte.
Vielleicht sprechen sie über Arbeit.
Oder über das Wochenende.
Oder über jemanden, den ich nicht kenne.
Ich fühle mich ein bisschen wie ein Schauspieler.
Ich spiele die Rolle von jemandem,
der alles versteht.
Am Ende sage ich:
„Das war interessant.“
Und alle nicken.
Auf dem Weg nach Hause denke ich:
Nächstes Mal frage ich mehr.
Nächstes Mal verstehe ich besser.
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 4:31 AM UTC
It’s been eight hundred twenty-one days
Since that day took you away
One hundred seventeen weeks and some days
Since that day took you away
I count it sometimes without meaning to
As if time could be measured into understanding
As if numbers could soften what remains
Since you’ve been gone, I keep moving
I learn new languages, new words for the same silence
I help children, guide them through small worlds
Where things still make sense
I study, I read, I build something that looks like a future
I do everything I am supposed to do
And still
I mourn you
I walk through days like I belong in them
I answer when they ask how I am
I say I’m fine
I say what fits
I say what keeps things from breaking
Since you’ve been gone, I can do what I want
I can go anywhere I choose
I can sit in rooms full of voices and laughter
But nothing, I said nothing, removes these truths
’Cause nothing replaces
Nothing replaces you
It’s been so long and still not long at all
Like time learned to stretch without healing
Everything continues forward
But I remain there
In a moment that never finished
They tell me I am doing well
That I am growing, becoming, improving
They see the effort, the movement, the progress
They do not see the weight that stays
Because I can learn every language
And still not find the words
I can help every child
And still feel the absence
I can study, build, and move through every day
And still
I mourn you
Eight hundred twenty-one days
One hundred seventeen weeks and some days
And still
nothing replaces
nothing replaces you
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 9:44 AM UTC
They asked me how I was
as required
at the beginning of all conversations
and I understood too late
that the question had already been answered
before it reached me
so when I spoke
it was an error in procedure
I said I have not been well
I said there are thoughts
that repeat themselves
without permission
that remain longer than they should
I did not raise my voice
I did not dramatize
I simply submitted the truth
in its unedited form
there was a pause
which was not recorded
and then acknowledgment
without reception
he said he understood
which in practice
meant the matter was closed
we moved on
to acceptable subjects
places
plans
later
always later
and I followed
because there was no alternative path
he left soon after
not abruptly
not in violation of any rule
just at the appropriate time
and afterward
I learned
through indirect channels
through careful phrasing
through the administrative language of friendship
that I had exceeded
an unspoken threshold
“a bit much”
“heavy”
“not always the vibe”
these are not accusations
they are classifications
and they are sufficient
to determine placement
therapy was mentioned once
not as a solution
but as a relocation
as if there exists
a designated office
for thoughts like mine
where they can be processed
without disrupting
the general flow
I have not gone
not because I refuse
but because the act itself
requires a certain strength
a capacity for initiation
which I seem
to have misplaced
or never possessed
and so the matter remains
unfiled
circulating internally
without resolution
I have since adjusted
my responses
to align with expectations
“How are you?”
receives
“I’m good”
this is considered correct
this produces continuity
invitations remain intact
no one leaves early
no one makes note
and yet
there persists
a secondary awareness
that honesty
must be scheduled
contained
or redirected
to institutions
equipped to absorb it
I consider
whether friendship
requires this translation
whether truth
must always be reduced
to remain admissible
or whether
the failure lies with me
in my inability
to convert experience
into something lighter
more portable
more easily ignored
there is no conclusion
only a gradual understanding
that inclusion
and accuracy
rarely occupy
the same space
and that for now
I lack the strength
to insist
on both
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 9:39 AM UTC
It is so nice
It is so nice
It is so nice
It is so nice
It is so nice to drift away
And set aside the weight of the day
It is so nice to drift away
And not be asked to explain
It is so nice to lie back
And watch the sky forget its shape
It is so nice to lie back
And let the hours loosen their grip
It is so nice
It is so nice
It is so nice
It is so nice
It is so nice to feel light
So light you almost disappear
It is so nice to feel light
So light no one calls your name
Somewhere a clock keeps ticking
But not for you, not right now
Somewhere a list is waiting
But it cannot find you here
Oh, I wish I were a breeze
Unregistered, uncontained
I would move through open windows
And never be written down
Or maybe just a quiet bird
Floating above the noise
Keeping close to the sun
With no reason to return
It is so nice to drift away
So nice to drift away
It is so nice to drift away
So nice to drift away
It is so nice
to be nowhere in particular
and still feel
exactly where you should be.
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 7:44 AM UTC
It began, as these things often do,
without an event.
There was no refusal,
no closed door,
no sentence that could be quoted later
as evidence.
Only a rearrangement.
The plans existed,
but not in a form that could be entered.
They floated between names—
Eric, perhaps a concert,
later, maybe—
always later—
as if time itself
had become conditional.
I was not uninvited.
That would have been clear.
I was simply not located
within the structure.
Previously, I had spoken.
This, I now understand,
was an administrative error.
I had submitted something—
a confession,
heavy, improperly formatted—
to an office
that does not process such documents.
No rejection was issued.
Only silence,
which is the preferred method
of correction.
Since then,
all communication has acquired
a certain politeness.
Every sentence contains an exit.
Every invitation,
a clause of withdrawal.
You can come—
(though it is not required)
It depends—
(though nothing depends on you)
We will see—
(though nothing will be seen)
I have adjusted accordingly.
I now respond in the same language.
I would be happy to join,
I write,
though it is understandable
if my presence is unnecessary.
This is considered appropriate.
It demonstrates awareness
of my position
within the system.
There is no hostility.
This is important.
Hostility would imply intention.
What exists instead
is a quiet redistribution
of proximity.
I remain known,
but no longer included
in the calculations.
Sometimes I suspect
that nothing has changed.
That the others move as they always have,
freely, without design,
and that it is I
who has been reclassified—
not removed,
but rendered
irrelevant to the outcome.
In any case,
the result is efficient.
No one has to say no.
And I have learned
to leave
before arrival.
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 5:27 AM UTC
To the reader, whoever you are, and however you came to possess this paper,
You must forgive the disorder of this letter. My thoughts have been wandering through narrow corridors all evening, and the corridors grow narrower the longer one remains inside them. Eventually a man begins to suspect that the hallway was not built for walking but for confinement.
It has taken me a long time to realize that my life resembles one of those bureaucratic offices where the doors multiply faster than the exits. Every time I believed I had found the correct passage, another clerk appeared, silent and efficient, and directed me elsewhere. No explanation was offered. None was requested. It seemed improper to ask.
Perhaps you will say that this is simply life. If so, then life is a curious institution. It hires us without interview, assigns us duties without description, and expects gratitude for the privilege.
I have performed my role poorly. That much is certain.
The trouble is not that the world is cruel. Cruelty would at least suggest intention. The greater difficulty is that the world appears to proceed without noticing us at all. We labor, hope, apologize, and grow ashamed under a sky that never filed the paperwork acknowledging our existence.
A man can endure hardship. What he cannot endure indefinitely is irrelevance.
There are people I regret leaving behind, though I suspect the word leaving is somewhat theatrical. Life will continue its quiet machinery tomorrow. Conversations will resume, trains will arrive, children will laugh in the streets, and someone will complain about the weather with the same seriousness usually reserved for philosophy.
I admire these rituals. They prove that the world is capable of operating without consulting me.
And yet I must confess something shameful. I often felt as though I were an uninvited witness to my own life. Others appeared to possess instructions that were never distributed to me. They knew when to celebrate, when to hope, when to rest. I merely watched, attempting to imitate their confidence with the clumsiness of a foreign language.
Eventually one grows tired of pretending fluency.
If this letter sounds prophetic, it is only because despair has an excellent memory for the future. I can already imagine how this will be interpreted. A tragedy perhaps, or a cautionary anecdote briefly mentioned between advertisements.
But I suspect the truth will be far quieter.
Most likely the world will respond with the same polite indifference it offers to everything else. A ripple in the water, then stillness again.
Please do not misunderstand me. I do not accuse anyone. Responsibility, like dust, settles everywhere and nowhere at once.
Still I must apologize to those who showed me kindness. Your kindness was real. It simply arrived in a house whose windows had already been bricked shut.
If there is any wisdom in what I leave behind, it is only this. A human being can become lost without moving an inch. One can remain seated at the same table for years while the rest of existence slowly relocates to another room.
At some point the realization dawns that you are no longer part of the gathering. You are only a piece of furniture the guests politely avoid discussing.
I suppose that is the moment a man begins writing letters like this.
The candle beside me has begun to lean. Wax spills downward in pale rivulets as if the candle itself is attempting escape. I cannot blame it. Even objects seem to recognize when a room has grown too small.
Soon the flame will vanish and the darkness will take over its quiet administrative duties.
When that happens the world will remain exactly as it was. Vast, orderly, and entirely unconcerned.
Which I think was always the verdict.
A man who waited too long for instructions.
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 1:49 PM UTC
Are the Gods punishing me for my indulgences,
or do my mistakes simply bear their own consequences?
Am I punishing myself
or is there something greater at work?
Maybe it is both.
Maybe it is neither.
Maybe no one is at fault
just circumstance unfolding as it does.
Or maybe this is nothing more
than the weight of my own gluttony
and ignorance.
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 9:43 AM UTC