Footprints

There I saw the barely adult version of me. The Hanged Man executed by hanging from a noose, strangled by his own interests and passions. Died of shame wanting to do what made him happy, following his artistic side. Died of shame of wanting to dance, to sing, to paint and to write. There he was, swinging silently in the hot air, wearing worn-out shoes, broken toes showing, stomped on by others. Strangled by that cord, struck by all those tens, hundreds, thousands of pencil arrows, surrounded by all the written stories he never completed. I could see the tears vaporizing on his cheeks and I could see all the bruises of taking the punches and kicks covering his body too. I went there stepping in the footprints of the now disappeared, silent watchers and cut the cord. 

I placed him next to the pillory, untied his hands on his back and laid him down to rest. I started crying looking at him, but I needed to leave because it was too soon – too real to see. I took the cord, made it my bracelet and took another step. I lifted my head and there I saw something else. He wasn’t alone. There were more. Next to him was another version of me. The one who died because he was failing classes, falling back and losing connection to classmates, friends he liked so much. 

I saw him there holding all the good memories, pictures of wishing to reconnect. The one that needed to adapt to a new class, another home, where all the spots were already taken. Trying to find his place and love that everybody else had found. Wishing to be able to take back what he did out of panic, because he was afraid of losing them all and feeling guilty because then, he actually did. And so, he died of guilt, too, because he didn’t have a bad friend, but because he believed he was that friend and that everything he got, he deserved. 

Right there covering him, hugging him, was another me. That version of me that fell in love too quickly, that Philipp who would move houses for a fifth time for someone he loved but also for someone who couldn’t love him back. The one who learned that Love might include It’s not considered cheating when you are allowed to watch. The one who wasn’t sexy enough for having sex with, and the one who learned that he was not desirable enough to find safety in physicality.
And so, those three versions were soothing each other – As In Life, So In Death. Trying to protect each other from the pain and hurt they knew so well. They all were there, comforting each other, melting into each other with all they had in common. I left them there. They finally had their Trinity – Harmony, Balance and Bliss. They were together – even if it meant not being able to enjoy it.

The ground beneath my feet got muddier by the steps I took. I started to sink in, but I had to go further because I could see the next P. Torn apart, limb to limb and squashed by the burden of Saying No. The early twenty version that was feeling guilty of not wanting to be a go-getter. To go and get those free samples and of not wanting to eat that red meat that turned brown through the lens of a color-blind and not wanting what was served on the table. The one who died of shame of saying No, it wasn’t me and being denied belief of such and would still get punished for things because being there when things happen, counts just as much.