the Life, the Love and the Sex of Vienna.

Thoughts on a Party Saturday and me lonesome on the Balcony

[Location: Rebekka’s place, somewhere in Vienna, her Birthday; Date: April 17th; Time: 10:30 p.m.]
I am at a party right now and besides all the nice conversations will so many seemingly wonderful people, there is something inside of me, that gives me the irrevocable feeling of incompleteness in shape of a heavy stitch that feels like one thousand needles pressing against my chest trying to suffocate me, killing my heart, destroying every possibly upcoming emotion in it.

I sit there on the balcony – away from the actual party scene to calm down a bit, to breathe a little easier, to relax, but all I have inside my seemingly narrow mind is work and university stuff and fashion and right now I have never felt more superficial and selfish than any time before this particular moment. I am alone there on the balcony and all the thoughts of my mind are about me and I kind of wonder – is that all there is to me – me? Is it really the way it is, the way it should be, the way it has to be in life? My life? Every life? Thinking only about what you did achieve, what you are doing right the second and what you want to become one day?

Is this actually superficiality or is this what people are made of – themselves and only themselves – foolishly wrong and naïvely overestimating one’s own capabilities?
We always say we want to love someone deeply and honestly, because we have so much love to give – and if you really dig down deeper into this thought and this actual phrase you realize, it is all about you wanting anyone to realize how capable of loving you are. We use to say we want the perfect job, because we are working so hard for it and actually we mean that we deserve more money and a better job situation than anybody else, even though we do not even know the slightest bit of how much the other person is struggling and fighting for achieving his/her dreamsl, because we are important, we are good, we are special and actually mostly we have to admit that we are just nothing but pretending. Because that is how the game is played. Isn’t it? But to be honest: Pretending is an ending that perpatuates a lie.

We are what we are, who we are – neither more special, nor more sophisticated, not more determined to become famous, than anybody else around us is. We are what we make outselves to. That’s it – isn’t it?




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