EN
I’ve been running the whole time,
running and asking myself:
"Can it hold?"
I’ll take a puff and strip off
my sweat-soaked, trashed jeans.
I put the kettle on the stove
and delete all the spam that’s come in
over the last month.
“Aren’t you living kinda off?”
Asks the voice in my wild,
overgrown mess of a head.
“Aren’t you living KINDA off?”
I live off,
and we all say that to ourselves sometimes.
So cut the crap and just advise me.
Advise me on how to deal with loneliness,
the kind of loneliness
we’re all born with, huh!?
Quiet now, voice
in my wild, overgrown mess of a head, are we?!
Maybe my head isn’t overgrown enough yet.
Maybe it was a very warm winter
and all the hot thoughts
didn’t have time to cool down.
Maybe you’ve already forgotten
the taste of longing—
and the fading echo of a moment lived.
Maybe.
And anyway, one day I’ll look at Mallorca
and finally find the lost ledgers.
One day, perhaps,
I’ll even be able to speak with you.
No, my friend,
that’s already been.
Gone is the time
when you roamed the fields half-naked
and picked daisies from the tall grass.
Gone is the time
when the filthiest thoughts tore through
your mind right in the middle of mass.
Gone is the time
you pissed away over pints
of heavy 12° lager.
And Gone is the time
when you tried to cram your life
into someone else's five-point grading trap.
Now, right now, you stand here,
you’ve stopped and are pouring hot water
over some cheap supermarket crap
and telling yourself:
"Can it hold?"