A metaphorical storytelling

The story I wrote, then, in 2002, or better, from 2002 until 2004, was more written in a metaphorical sense, than about facts or real fiction. At least, that is what I think now. Today, I understand what I meant, when I wrote that “she divorced him, and she lived in a big house full of memories and old furniture, which she was not allowed to sell, and him always allowed to use the house still, even though he did not need the house because he owned five other houses and flats/ apartments. She did not want him to come back but at the same time, she wanted it so bad, and when he showed up, she was confused or even annoyed, because he was so mean to her and he had so much power, she couldn’t even win over him in a jurisdictional manner, because it was his house and she was only allowed through him to live there… She loved him and she hated him (and the same goes for him, he felt the same about her), and he had so expensive lawyers that she was out powered by him… she couldn’t afford a lawyer, and so she waited and waited and tried to find out about her feelings and what she wanted, but also she was struggling with it all because she did not want to lose the house, she loved it so much.” Well, that was the fiction part, I will not go into details, that is too personal. But, the thing is, she was afraid of his power, and one sentence goes like this: ” his lawyers were so expensive, that they were also always the best.”  Another sentence: “the pressure on her began to be stronger and stronger each day, and forced her into an isolation she never would have thought it would exist.”

That he shows up every once in a while means, well, the thoughts I have of him, that I can’t let him go and the whole story, and the house in general means that  I am caged and that it’s like a prison to my thoughts and feelings of the past moment.

 

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Your own alike

I always thought, the world would be hold up by the interest in others. Those, who are different from you. But in fact, the world is hold up by thinking about yourself, only accepting the ones who are the same as you, do the same things as you, and look all the same as you.

I really detest this earth… the earth of the so called “humans”, that is.

Since I am different from everyone, I am not liked by anyone. (The like on the internet does not count…) I am not inside the groups of people who are the same, not one single group would fit me. That is so weird… I wonder, how on earth could I have made it on to the world. Whereas I am only me and not alike anyone else.  Not even anyone in my so called “family” looks like me. On both sides. I am just an orphan…. if you want. Funny, really. And weird at the same time.

When I start speaking English, or a bit French, people tend to think, I am from somewhere else necessarily, because of my looks. They don’t even realize that I learned these languages on purpose, by myself and as a foreign language. Yeah, that is disgusting. It annoys me a lot… But as a half German, I have to say that I can’t find anyone here who understands it, or who might even come to the understanding on his own. Germans are not very smart people. Of course not, or they would not have to apologize for the last one thousand years… Therefore, I need to hate myself a bit, since I am a part of them (not from my looks, and not from my – oh, well, that is already it, wow, who would have thought that!, okay, my behavior is probably not so stupid, and not so foreigner hateful…).

Well, yes. I used to love America. But now, I think, as a grown-up, I learned that this world is not about being interested, but about race, color, and the all alike behavior and looks (fashion like) and about how smart you are (have you spend your time at a college or have you just spend your time in lazyness? for example), and if you have money or not (again the same as have you spend your time being smart on college or being lazy on the streets), yes, it all hurts… you have to take it like a grown up. At least I grew up and left my inner child back in nowhere land.

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