Daily life was a song to Layla.
It was a melody taking over something deep inside.
But what does that mean?
When asking her, Layla opens up another bottle of wine and takes a gulp. Then she laughs about my concerned expression.
„I couldn‘t care less“, she would say and her red hair would fly with a passionate underlining of her words through a movement of her head. „A few weeks ago, you even hesitated to order the very last beer we would have in a bar. Now, I am not even scared of the dark anymore. I know, there is nothing waiting for me in there. Nothing.“
Yes, Nothing. We are alone. And that is the point.
We loved the little things that could build up between people.
„Remember this boy in school“, my witch would say, after another gulp and her eyes would have this shadow of a wonderful memory that right there would tear her insides apart. „I mean, at school where we worked once. This boy, that had to take two trains to get there in the morning and was always tired because he had to get up so early and came home so late.“
„I remember.“
„Still, he did not want to leave. He really wanted to stay.“ Another gulp. „It was his home.“
Yes, it was part of his home. And for a short time, it had been ours.
That boy would always startle us by jumping out of a bush, right in front of us, when we arrived at school. At some point, the startle was followed by a smile. We had gotten used to it. We knew it would happen.
“Always at almost the same time, with almost the same sound and an emotional reaction on both sides”, Layla would add. “Just like a melody.”
We are missing it now.
„I also miss the train ride home“, Layla adds and at this point I wish that she would stop taking such deep gulps. „Knowing that things are done. Having shared another day with those kids, another joke over coffee and coming home peacefully. While listening to music. Remember? We listened to Kate Bush a lot, back then.“
Yes, I remembered. I also remembered the inspired afternoons and evenings that had followed.
„It felt right“, Layla would say.
Yes, it had felt right. That also meant that at some point before it had not felt so right.
Now Layla put the bottle away and lay down on the floor. Her red hair was wavy enough to fly everywhere around her, and her long dress would fly around the remaining parts of her.
„When I was doing the things that I cared about and that mattered to me, the fear was gone“, one of us would whisper. „The fear, the sadness would leave, because everyday was worth facing it.“
„Now I‘m lost“, she would add.
We were lost.
Yes, we were lost. Fear was back. Sadness was back. Deep sadness, that could also turn into a scary amount of happiness.
„Our soul is out of control.“
It is.
And where does this leave us?
A friend of ours had said that this was just real life. That we had been kidding ourselves the years before, that we had been dared to be happy while horrible things were happening around the world. That we had just distracted ourselves from the awful state the world was in. But Layla and I do not agree.
„So we write about kicking those police men with our boots in our grandma‘s nightdress to keep our cigarettes!”, my witch giggled.
No comment from me on that, as I reach for another cigarette. But that is the good part about sharing my kitchen with a witch. I can blame those accidents on her.
Layla is awake because I have no chance to do one little thing that keeps me save on the inside.
Mistress witch writes 