To write or not to write? Judging by this snow-covered landscape below, slowly but surely turning into marching soldier ants on ice I have in fact chose to do the technicolor yawn and discharge my interrupted soul into the gazing eyes of whoever the hell is reading this. As far I can remember everything I’ve ever written was with her stripping, sitting, knitting, shining and dying in the attics of my mind. What is to follow, is not.
In the prime of my underdeveloped youth I remember wishing to have a certain army figurine; god knows it spoke to me in sounds of gunfire. It shot ammunition with a proud soul and leopard crawled endlessly in the fertile gardens of my mind. I wanted it so damn bad that my wet dreams ceased and instead of waking up on semi soaked linen I up woke with a soldiers’ beret on my head and dried out tomato sauce squirted on my naked chest. One day, as the sun broke the cold wintery night it was right there next to me, accompanied by familiar songs of celebration and family kisses. After a while my toy got old and forgotten and I had wet dreams again. I packed my once beloved soldier away somewhere between old forgotten fluffy toys, dimensionless eye patches and broken swords.
I got a little older, reached puberty, overcome it to a certain extent and then I saw her, beauty itself, in the form of a then flat chested girl still mastering the art of ballet. Insecure as I am, was, I never told her about the unfamiliar, purely transcendent feelings that she awakened inside of my then unaware and ignorant soul. I shouldn’t have, chances are we would have fallen in love, tried it out, had some fun, screwed around and failed. Now it’s around two thousand six hundred and ninety days, a couple of broken hearts (among some other pretty things) later and I don’t, I really don’t feel any different whatsoever. It feels good to be able to hold on to something pure, drenched in hope, potential devastating happiness. Believe me I don’t want to put her away to cuddle with my once beloved soldier figurine. One day, come what may, time might become ripe. I might be clearheaded, closer in distance and fresher than a newborn bird.
I saw you in a dance once
Drawing raw red circles with your feet,
Speaking the language of winged creatures with your hands,
Love is patient, love is neat
The way you moved, moved my soul
The way you spoke broke my throat
Bended body, arrow animus
Snow shoulders, snow coat
Oh, keep on dancing
Keep on being beautiful
Reach your dreams
But protect your soul
One day we will meet again
Each on our path
We will smell like physical chemistry
In the garden of telepathy
- Ruann Weidemann
Peace and love,