I

March 13

Driving has always been a way for me to run away, to leave behind. While driving to Poland I’m leaving a part of me behind, a past life, an old friend, an old self. Even though this journey will only last for a while I know there’s no return. No coming back to a past, a final past that has an end. Sitting in the car and being busy with my thoughts about personal concern, thousands of people are leaving their lives behind in this very moment hoping that there will be a return — one day. 

The night is as black as coal. It is early March and winter is still very present. My hands get cold and I am stern and at the same time ruminative. Will there be an opportunity to come back one day? I doubt it and think about a friend who lately told me people are rather running away than fleeing in these times of war. And I think, exactly that is the tough part: running away from something, not knowing where to go, not being able to process what will be left behind, realizing there might be no final point in running away — no destiny.

While I’m fleeing from my own demons I’m hoping I’ll be meeting people halfway who are running away from war, from horror, from pain collecting pieces together and finding peace. And then I feel the anger of my lack of sensitivity comparing my life crisis with — and then I have no words as I can’t describe a feeling or situation I can only hardly imagine. Ernest Hemingway’s writings about war, wound and maybe also wonder come to my mind. How does it come that these stories felt like a heartfelt relict of times I would never be able to comprehend. Even though his way of talking about happenings felt closer than one would like, those times seemed miles away.

War — I don’t think about war at this moment. I think about people queuing at the border in their winter coats and mittens. My mind wanders over stacks of clothes rotting in rain as there is no place to put these left behind things brought to the frontier. I think about my one outfit I own to go out clubbing and how the smoky smell anchored in my black McQueen blazer makes it more alive. How does it feel to be alive. And what’s the difference to death when feeling numb and scared already.

Driving into the night listening to ‘I want you’ by the Beatles I notice the absent taste of wine in my mouth longing for a drink. Thinking about this keeps me awake. Just a few simple lines.