Sorry. Sometimes one wants to run away. Just so. For no “special” reason, just “so”.
Like, things became a bit heavier than usual, or something else popped up, opening another front line. The causes may vary as the appraisals do, the impulse stays.
Ideas … throw anything (what ?) in a car and drive off. Walk out – simply as that: Turn around, walk away. Very Americaine – in German it’s the picture of the man who “just goes for cigarettes” (“Ich geh’ mal Zigaretten holen!”). He never comes back.
Others may fake their death, orchestrate their demise – vanishing is (not that) easy. People who deal with this professionally, mostly detectives, say that things are not that easy: The important thing is not what you do before you “die”, but afterwards. It needs and means a total rupture – few are ready to make that.
And of course there are things you can not run away from.
Your own body. Or relations you can not cut off, that run to deep in your personality, your own being; they will not change or end when you just go to another place, change your name – change something else of this outer persona. I very much like the word and idea of “per-sona~”, the “sounding through” – the thing one holds before the real face and sounds through, the mask if you will, that what is shown, and sound.
Exactly what we do here on the interwebs, as Donnn once called it.
My ideas of running away are totally conform and traditional. It’s less about going to another place, travelling away and in such hiding – it’s more about throwing all in the faces of those who want something; more a kind of stuffing things down the throats of people or personified circumstances; to finally get rid of obligations, to finally reach a feeling, a state of being un-bonded, un-obligated, un-obliged [ all words contain the Latin ligare, what means nothing else but verbinden, to connect: So I finally want to be un-connected ]. And of course the usual images come up, like cars, horses, running … I hate to run. I like horses, in as much as I like other large animals like cows or Hirsche, but I feel not connected to them in a special way. Wolves are different.
What’s it all about – running away ? Getting rid of ?
And I can’t.
My father took care for his dying wife, my beloved mother, for years, and we did not run away. Maybe it’s “protestant”; or simply “grown up”; you do not back out, run away, ignore – especially when death is in your living room.
So, where does this blab lead to ? Nowhere of course, it’s just Gelapper. I am tired. I feel fear. And from a certain age onwards you realize that wine does not “solve problems” – don’t be silly, gettin’ hammered solves nothing and never did – but from one point in time onward it even does not “make things light”, lighter, simpler, more bearable; simply because death, cancer and slipping into the big nothing are not tolerable, acceptable or “light” – at least from my actual point of view.
It comes nearer. Is life from a certain point onward only an exercise in dying ? Learning to embrace the bone man ?
I hate to see people die from cancer, suffer from cancer, I hate cancer. I have to look at it, and I do. And Silvaner does not help anymore. The more you see, the more it hurts, the more you die with them.
There IS no place to run to, nowhere to hide …