in the face of this,
what else matters.
it becomes difficult to concentrate on trivial things
when larger moments stare you in the face.

in the face of this,
my hands lose power, start to shake. my mind strays,
falls to thoughts of sadder days.
the art either loses meaning
or transforms into something
i do not wish to create.
in moments like this,
when the world grows too big
for me to inhabit it,
when the worlds within me
are turned to dust by the sun,
i can only hope to stay stable,
stay clinging.
i fear the alternative is crumpling,
a breaking no one is ready to see,
a void -

and isn't that strange,
to be filled with empty?

so in the face of this,
i can only stare the sun in the eyes,
meet it glare for glare.
i am hesitant to mutter the word breakdown
in the fear that it will all turn real,
and the world will shatter around me.
right now it is paper-thin.
fragile glass, and i fear the firestorm brewing within me
will set everything ablaze.
i ache;
each breath heavier than my heart.
try my best to swallow the scream churning in my throat.
blink to keep the burning out of my eyes.
my bones creak whenever i move
like a rotten thing. a skeleton.

i stay here,
stay clinging.
wait for the firestorm to fizzle into a kind wind,
fizzle into nothing.
it takes its own kind of eternity.

still, clinging, i wait.
here, it is the most i can hope to do.

it is bad enough by now
that i can pinpoint when it starts.
the slow ***** of downhill.
the soft lull of descent.
it is quiet and deep and pulls me in without a thought,
a noiseless explosion.
i explode,
but only inwards.
i crumble,
but only from within.
there is no collateral damage
except to myself.

and in this knowledge,
i would excuse it as okay.
who cared, anyway.
it was okay as long as i kept it silent;
a survival that only goes one-way.
shows only one side.
i would wait for the storm to pass with baited breath.
for the earth to stop shaking, the waves to quit crashing.
ran, lost.
tried to find a way out of the calamity
that was myself.

these days everything is blurry
and i keep forgetting all the things i want to write.
in exchange my poetry is a strange entity
that doesn't quite fit my hands.

these days the sun shines far too bright.
the light upon the ocean water is as good as blinding;
the sand is burning coal beneath my feet.
everything is burning;
but somehow, i still drown.

these days everything is just tumult,
is ocean waves crashing against my back,
begging to pull me in.
the water darkens,
deepens,
does its best to lose me in it.

and when it isn't -
when it isn't, i am wrung dry upon a desert,
half-buried.
it is either storm or drought with me, these days,

and i am ready for neither.

in the end,
it carries on.

I discard backing down from my options.
fear is a difficult thing to shrug off:
anxiety keeps it heavy and panic makes it stick to my shoulders.
nevertheless: I discard giving up as a worthy solution.

if my fingers still shake, it’s only the cold.
if my heart still pounds too loud, no one has to know.
and if I am still afraid—give me just a moment.
it is out of my control.

nevertheless, count on this:
I will pick myself back up again.

and yes,
I can confirm
(for all the still-lost)
there are good days.

they will come—
days when you feel free with every breath,
moments when your heart beats light in your chest
(steady, stable, alive)
times when there is this wonderful clarity in your mind.
they will come.
days everything—mostly—goes perfectly right.
they will come and you will smile.

you’ll finish all the things that must be done.
someone loved will offer a hug.
there will be triumph over the smallest things,
and you are allowed to feel proud of how far you have come.
there will be companionship,
and it will feel warm where it blooms in your body.

it will come:
the days where you will smile at anything.
you will be so happy it is as if you are afloat.
everything will go back to feeling like home.

yes,
I can confirm.

for the ones still hanging on,
I can confirm.
there will be good days,
and they are coming.

I require no lies;
I’ve seen your piranha teeth—
show your soul of ice.

A wind rustled in the trees
A flock soared above the skies
All was peaceful, all was calm—
But then something lurks in the shadows; peaceful no more.

For there it is: danger a-prowl
The deadliest animal, the most terrible thing
But it’s no lion, it’s no wolf
It is mankind alone.

The hunter sharpens his gaze, shifts his gun
A fawn is nearby, painfully innocent
Illegal, illegal, the subconscious whispers, stop, stop, stop!
But the hunter does not pause, for ignorance is bliss.

The conscience gnaws, the heart grows heavy
But still he aims—now, now! Let the bullet sink!
The shortest second, the briefest blink:
The hunter hesitates.

He stares at the fawn, oblivious to him
(Illegal, illegal! Stop, stop, stop!)
He stares and stares and stares—what has he become?
The hunter steps back; he lowers his gun.