dumm, sich abends mit rotwein fucking before sunrise und danach gleich before sunset anzuschauen und dann all romantic zu getten, like imagine yourself ten years from now and you're stuck in this marriage that just doesn't work out alright and all of a sudden you think back to all the boys and men you've come across and wonder what it would have been like with them, what if you have missed out on that one great oppurtnity, maybe just 'cause you were too hung-over (again) and yet again in that one certain moment made the wrong decision, chose the wrong words, what for fuck's sake would it have been like if for once you would have been you're one own true and lovingly self? but then again, how come you're that same tragic person, only six years later, sitting there, sipping your red wine, and face it, you do not even know it's good wine, far too good to be wasted for and on a sunday night like this, not married, thinking the same miserable thoughts because life on a sunday night just IS pathetic, singing to yourself and itunes, not even being able to play the guitar to play the matching tune. and even though your voice may be alright and you might actually hit the right notes and go to bed early and wake up the next morning, managing to get up though slightly hungover, there's duties, there's work to do. and you will still be sober enough to just wipe away last night's thoughts, filing them under "sunday nights' melancholy" and then that's it for another month or two. until one night you might just as well sit on the nightbus, hating it, taking it, watching people outside waiting for another one, another line to hop on to get to another venue, or even home. and maybe it takes just one face to remind you again and again and yet again, because there has never, NEVER been a face that might fit the story you might file under "love at last", including tracklist, so this is love (cinderella again). weeks ago that one bloke made you nauseaous, when he told you and the rest of whoeverwasdowntolistentohim how bleeding old he was. fuck him. even if a geek's for life, you'd rather die alone and lonely than ending up with a total twat like HIM! but nevertheless, it is a sunday night, and all of a sudden , all of a rotten moment you feel old yourself, because life might just be moments, right moments, good moments, but you might also be the one to spoil the very same ones. whatever. one night. maybe some more in total. you are just the equation of all the people you met, all the experiences you made, no use crying over spilt milk, you've tried hard, you tried to make memories last, to give them a sequel (nice try!), and ten years is six years, is one year, two, just a few months. because they say your memory is amazing, how come you keep all of that in your humble mind if I may ask you, hello? anybody out there? in there?
erinnerungen sind steine, sind graue morgenhimmel und einzwei gesten, ein handnehmen, ein "and then it got wurst", ein grinsen im mundwinkel, die zukunft supposedly bilingual, gerne, gerne, aber baby blue, auch wenn du dir der farbe nicht mehr sicher bist, over is over. aber wir sind träumer. ich hier, du da, der andere daneben, stimmt doch, oder? und sonntagabende sind die hölle in kleinen papiertüten ohne extra spielzeug. sometimes a memory only sees what it wants to see. selektives statt kollektives gedächtnis. das ist menschlich. ich bin menschlich. denn da ist ein weicher punkt, der einen namen hat. und der meldet sich. der bleibt. der mag nicht erwachsen sein. du sollst nicht suchen, du sollst gefunden sein. es gibt gründe, denkst du. es gibt einen sinn. aber sonntags, nur manchmal, fängst du an auf englisch zu fluchen, über dei verpfuscht klaa lebe, here's to that! here's to life, to sundays! and all the rest! cheers loves!
(und du beschwer dich noch einmal, dass ich nicht genügend schreibe!)

sexy. jupp.