If I listen closely, I can hear the kitchen breathing.
It is old and used,
showing signs of damage,
break-ups.
Has it seen darker times?
Has it heard its former owners cry?
Did it see them smashing plates or windows?
Or being utterly lonely?
Has it collected laughter?
Moments of unbound happiness?
Thankfulness? Forgiveness?
What number of meals have been cooked here?
How many potatoes? Eggs? Coffees?
The ceiling is very low,
I can touch it
when I stand on tiptoes.
The noises from the streets are dense
and I feel like a small island
high above.
From my kitchen window,
I can overlook the city’s centre
And watch these crisp and blue skies.
A few weeks ago,
when this whole
isolation started,
my mum called me, saying:
„The skies of my childhood returned.“
Who would have thought
that this would ever happen?
Cables everywhere
and the neighbour‘s wifi-connection
arrives here only in fragments.
I want to stay in touch.
But how?
My bodily perception
changed since my return.
It seems like the lack of interaction
makes me lose my centre.
Trying to stick together
all my parts
with only one thin silver cord.
At my beside locker
lies my bite splint.
What am I chewing up during these muted nights?
Unpacked boxes,
unhung paintings
and the sound of smashing brothers.
A Japanese talisman is watching over me.
What happens if the world would end today?
What would be left of us?
Imagine
you could go back in time
and ask your father:
“Where am I ought to go from here?”