Pancakes for dinner

I come from a country where pancakes are a dinner-food, but I don’t try to overcomplicated things too much and enjoy them for breakfast, and lunch, every now and again too. The thing is, I’d rather enjoy them with you. Set on a balcony with a lovely view of the city, the first rays of sun – a scene of which I’m not sure if we just gotten home from a fine party or just woke up by the summers early rise. I want to lay in a park with you: an image of you slowly taking a drag from your cigarette, and me reading one of my many art magazines. We could walk hand in hand, stroll past the many stands of the Mauerpark market on a Sunday. Get icy drinks, sit in the sun, play pool, get drunk, fuck, sleep, have breakfast… Do it all over again.

There are many things I could add to this unrealistic sum that would sound idyllic and brilliant, but they shouldn’t (and wouldn’t) happen – because there is no you, only me. Even trying to imagine this I remind myself of the desperate 16-year-old version of a friend who’s moving in together with her boyfriend sometime this year.

Which is lovely, because at least I’m able to have pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner – set on a balcony with a view.


Modern irony

Your written feelings aren’t worth anything anymore, but then again the novelty wears off quite quickly when you send love letters in e-mail form. Now it’s just a collection of black pixels that I can’t make sense of. As if all this time you’ve been writing in code and I need a new Enigma machine to crack it.

I can’t burn our pictures, so I drag them (passive aggressively) over my desktop to the trash.

You won’t pass my firewall.

You’re as annoying as YouTube commercials that you can’t skip. You’re as cheap as free Internet porn – without the pleasure. Your social media haunts me, and I don’t know if I still know you as a person, or just this unrealistic representation of the actual person you are.

Yes, the irony: you’re still in my newsfeed, but you’re actually yesterday’s news.

The language of love

Apparently, we’ve been fools thinking that opposites attract whilst in reality it is our shared interests that attract us to one another and make us fall in love. Even though this seems like This got me thinking, whilst “slightly” intoxicated (more emphasis on the latter), in the arms of an Italian passing a beer back and forth, communicating in broken German, whether or not a language barrier would stand in between of attraction. But let’s be honest, I’m too drunk and the Berlinesque techno is drifting away any worry I can possibly overthink on a Saturday night. So I dance the night away and he does the same. We walk back, closely next to one another. He would love to live in the countryside, whilst I love cities. He misses the Italian cuisine, and I fondly remember the Thai kitchen of my travels.

I don’t want him to talk, because I don’t want to overthink his words and he’s good enough to just enjoy looking at. There goes his last touch; his goodbye burns on my cheek. The alcohol in my veins fast forward time and suddenly I’m sat in the S-bahn heading home, alone, spotify on repeat. I can’t help but thinking that I just shared a drink called loneliness, but just like the piano man always sings: it’s better than drinking alone.