a portion of existential joy. and a portion of deep rooted misery.
to my horrow i find the nowhere-pointing look in my eyes. mm. don't wanna go there.
/this is my house. let it be your home. and we'll be safe in there/

this is to be a confession.

there's this thing about me.
i'm a successor. of all this. i'm one of a.. worn-out aristocracy.
an intellectual behind the times.
i'm one of "those".. living in an art nouveau apartment with a spectacular view. surely, in the best part of the city. ceiling decors, restored furniture and two staircases of which one for the servants. a pity we had to tear down the open-fire.
and then those books in the library that date back a century. scrupulously gathered cut-outs. art, history, biology. they WERE the People of their time. they, who once lived here.
and then there's still me. constantly having the feeling.. not to live up to expectations.
too much dust /round here/

curious. the blend. sure it couldn't be that easy.. up comes the respected and grand farmer family. the district forester. teachers, accountants, painters, honored men, complex characters... and even then. a good half of my "roots" run into the unknown. names i've never known, places i've never been and directions which i bashfully fear.
curious. how i hereby try to explain myself away. the puzzle. the indecision
and then there's still me.