Ein Fenster. Ein Mann davor. Oder dahinter. So genau weiß er es selbst nicht, nur, dass es einen Unterschied macht, genauso wie es einen Unterschied macht, ob sein Glas halb voll oder halb leer ist. Seine linke Hand schließt sich um das Gefäß auf dem Tisch, automatisch und ohne optische Lotsenhilfe durch seine Augen, die auf einen Punkt auf der anderen Seite der Scheibe starren. Die Hand führt das Whiskyglas an seine Lippen, das einzige Geräusch im Raum ist das leise Klirren der Eiswürfel, die mit den winzigen Whiskey-Wellen gemeinsam an die kristallene Küste branden. Kühl und heiß zugleich rinnt die Flüssigkeit seine Kehle hinunter, nur ein Schluck, dann tritt das Glas seine Reise zurück auf die Tischplatte an.
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Light streams into the room from the window above my head. If you can call it that. The light, I mean. It’s grey. It’s dull. And it’s a problem, because it means that it is too dark in the room to work properly, but not dark enough to switch on the lights. I sit on the sofa and stare up into the sky. Looks very familiar. This is what my soul must look like, I’m thinking and watch a small, very dark cloud pass over my head. This is me. Just a dull, grey mess. I wonder if there are sounds up there in the sky. If the clouds are whispering words to one another. Down here there are no words left. And no sounds.
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There is a sound. I can hear it, but I cannot identify it. It’s not the muffled “thump” of my feet on the muddy path nor the rustling of leaves or the hum of passing cars in the nearby street. It isn’t caused by the birds in the trees or the squirrels on the ground. And it has nothing to do with the low chatter of other people around me. I don’t know if there is a real cause for it. It’s just there. Right here. And only here. And its name is silence.
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I have never been good at poetry. I wrote a few poems as a kid, but more of the “it is not fine, if you will not rhyme“-kind, really. I do not claim that this is in fact poetry in the technical sense of the word, since this is something quite spontaneous and has not seen any analysis of stance and rhythm at all. Besides, English still isn’t my native language. Therefore I am a bit shy to post this.
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Here we go again, Donna thought angrily, shaking her head. She felt miserable and it served her right. There was no happily ever after, no making up for past mistakes, no going back to the way things were. She had been too naïve, too stupid and this was the result. Tears were crawling into her eyes as she pulled harder on the rusty screw that just downright refused to move.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you”, Donna hissed through gritted teeth, pulling harder.
The tap bubbled an annoying happy tune in reply, mocking all her efforts to close off the water-supply to the sink.
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…the stars were bright, much brighter than they had been in Sam’s memory. Or maybe their light had just faded away over the years, like so many other details about this island he had desperately tried to hold on to in his mind. He had fought to keep the memory of every smell, every sound, [...]
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