Volver.

Quizás es tiempo de volver.
Honestamente ya no recuerdo el español, pero no soy tan perfecta en inglés, y ese miedo que siento cuando escucho parejas en Alemán debe significar algo. No nos entendemos, pero ya no me entiendo ni a mi. Me perdí tratando de encontrarme, pero en realidad es que nunca me tuve, primero fui de ella, después de él y un retorno a ella hasta que escapé, pero la jaula sigue ahí.

No puedo escapar de ella, convirtió mi subconsciente en la prisión perfecta. Puedo teñirme el pelo, hacerme tatuajes, tener sexo con todo Berlín, pero estoy atrapada en esa voz que me odia, que me desanima, que me presiona. Estoy atrapada en tu voz, suéltame!

Quizás es tiempo de volver, o de partir de nuevo.
Tengo cierta libertad ahora, pero no. El sistema, la sociedad, la moral, la ética, pero no puedo bañarme en el lago si está envenenado, no hay decisión correcta.
No hay decisión correcta y no podemos escapar!

Quizás es tiempo de irme, a donde sea.
Me libero de tu pena, pero no importa cuánto arranque, la cárcel va a seguir aquí, adentro mío.

Quiero morir porque no hay libertad ni esperanza. Quiero morir porque no hay amor.

Prison.

Between nougat bits and pretzel sticks, I feel dry.
If I don't go to you, you don't come to me,
you just don't come to me.

Lying next to a body that loves so much, yet can't be free.
I get that prison,
I am stuck there too.

I'm in the yard, and you are in the shoe,
but it's the same prison in the end.

We share the striped moon at night, the only time we both dare to dream though we can only cry.
Because you and I are both dry,
and maybe, our adventure makes us worse.

I need to calm down,
you need to feel.
we are trapped in the prison of our minds.

Psychoanalysis of another breakdown.

 

As a child, I wanted to be homeless.

The drawing I kept making over and over again was myself in a cave, in a corner, in a hole, with an umbrella over my head, blankets and pillows and a fire to keep me warm. 

I see now that I was seeking freedom, safety and protection. That which I never got at home. Now as an adult, I am still in the same search because I don't know how that looks like. I get into the same patterns and pains, even if my room is cosy. I feel empty because what I needed then was a parent who would make sure I was seen and safe, but now I don't see or protect myself. That is Freud.

I need to get back to reparenting, listening to myself, taking time for my needs entirely, but I am caught up again in the drama. I forgot once more who I am because the core of me has gone to seek refuge in the depths of my subconscious, a place full of traps, labyrinths and song lyrics. All meaningful and harder to solve than any puzzle since they have a hidden symbolic logic based on experiences I don't even remember. There's a reason they have gone to that godforsaken place, it's best if they stay there.

Now being a highly sensitive one, I don't know how much I can trust why those memories were stored away. Anything and everything hurts.
I wonder if waking up with the image of those drawings I made means something too. I wish I had help.