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When harmony leaves,

ease departs with heavy a step,

waking spine and spirit,

stirring up hope in its deep hollows.

On stony path they learn to know,

together they seek their home and merit.

Wisdom creeps behind their lot,

so none can glean a glimpse,

but hope perceives its form.

At last they gain their long sought aim.

Hope sees it first, Wisdom discerns,

Spine gains upon, and Spirit greets.

When harmony returns, it rekindles comfort

and lights up Joy.


Christmas of the unwell

‘And don’t forget to hand this in on monday.’ The woman said, as she added another folder onto the already considerable pile in my arms. She stared at me with her round, watery eyes. I nodded meekly, crouched down to retrieve a plastic bag from under my desk. In it, I fished for my phone with scrabbling fingers and pressed the hold button on top. ‘18.37’ the screen told me. ’24th of December’ it said.

I tottered out of the office, skidded round the corner and stumbled down the stairs on my way to the subway platform. That morning, a dense mist had settled on the streets, muffling sounds of cars and pedestrians and reducing everything to varying shades of gray. A knot formed in my stomach as my eyes slid from the cigaret strewn concrete of the platform to the overweight woman next to a vending machine, her bull-dog staring at me with bulging, milky eyes, and then to the mound of work pulling on the muscles of my arms as I struggled to keep it together.

As the train rattled into sight, a rat appeared from under an overflowing garbage bag and jumped onto the rail tracks. I felt like following it. The doors opened with a beep and a gush of warm air, people started queuing to get in. As I tried to ascend the steps, I bumped into someone. I turned round to apologise and stood eye to eye with a scruffy old man. He was wearing a brown wool jumper and patched up painters pants, with half-gloves and baby blue earmuffs. His wispy white hair made his head look blurry, as if clouds were floating around it. He had a scraggly beard, lines creasing his forehead.  His eyes were of a light, ageless green, glowing with a deep peaceful happiness and glinting openly with mischief. He was smiling and made a gesture as if to say ‘ Go ahead’. I grinned, entered and settled into a seat at the back of the compartment, taking out my work.

After a few seconds of comfortable jostling, I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard odd guttural sounds coming from the same general direction the hand seemed to be attached to. I twisted around to see the same old mans smiling face. He was obviously speaking, though what about was hard to make out. Finally I switched on my brain and go some sense into his words. ‘Can I sit here?’ he repeated patiently. His voice was strangely constricted, swollen, warped. I nodded, shifted on my seat and started blankly staring at my sheets.

Two stops later, a small oriental looking couple sat down opposite me, their son next to the old man. The boy was unwrapping a lollipop, cooing, his eyes gleaming. When he finally managed to rip off his paper, he looked around confusedly, holding the sticky wrappings in his small, pudgy hand. His mother was looking at him sternly. I averted my eyes and started ripping at the skin around my fingernails with my teeth. I was looking at the letters on my paper. They where soaring and dancing whilst my heart convulsed painfully and my eyes pricked uncomfortably. The old man placed his hand on my shoulder, pointing at the small waste-bin underneath the window and handing me the sticky mess of  sweet wrappings. He ruffled the boy’s hair, whose parents were now pointedly staring in any direction but our three seats. I suppressed a grin and put down my thumb, which I had been nibbling on. Then the old man pulled out some wrapped chocolates. He offered me one, saying: ‘My name is Joseph. Want some?’ His tongue seemed to have difficulties wrapping itself around the words, producing an outlandish sound. All the while his eyes were smiling, brightening his features. I accepted the treat. ‘Where are you from then?’ I asked. He stared at my lips for a while, seemingly contemplating the question. Then he said: ‘I’m deaf.’ I blushed and he handed me another chocolate.

At the next stop, both the old man and I got up. ‘Your stop too?’ he asked. ‘ You look like you could use some fresh air. Fancy a walk in the park?’  I hesitated, concentrating on the rash on my arm for a second. ‘Sure’, I said. My mouth was dry.

We left the train with many other passengers, all rustling and bustling to get to the fresh air. As I stepped off the subway, the bulldog from the former platform weaseled through my legs, its leash trailing in its wake. A bloated figure came wobbling past, huffing and calling the dog’s name. The dog looked back, stared at me and then its gasping owner. It turned slowly, stared trotting, running and then going full pelt, the clickiticlick of its nails on the concrete ringing in my ears. I stepped aside, waiting for my new friend. We went to a park in the vicinity, where Joseph conjured up a teaflask from somewhere, along with two cups and a sucramid expensor. I welcomed the heat on my numb fingers when he poured me some. I mixed in the small sugar pill and took a sip. The smell of cinnamon and ground cloves filled my nostrils.

There were a few carolers standing beside a glowing christmas tree. We stood and listened. It was a beautiful, eerie song, the soprano soaring out of the sea of voices only to linger for a moment until rejoining the others. The sound washed over me and licked at my heart.

After what seemed a millenia, I awoke from my stupor and tossed the singers a few coins. I bid my new friend goodnight and started walking to my flat. Joseph had his eyes on my back, I knew.

Whilst walking, I felt the silky skin of my hands, caressing my own fingers. I felt the roughness of the air, which was so cold, the insides of my airways felt numb and hot. I felt the prickling sensation on my cheeks against the arctic temperatures. I saw vibrance of strange light formations in the mist as the sun sank towards a horizon of red brick buildings.

And then, just like when you decide a zebra is black with white stripes instead of vice versa, my sight shifted. I saw everything black in the settling darkness. I saw the many facets of  black, its many textures, light and colour being a  mere side effect. I saw the way it consumed everything. I felt so lonely, a deep, cold tiredness coursing through my veins. This experience was a last deep fall, and I started panicking, my heart hammering and throbbing. As I approached my door, I saw someone had sprayed my neighbours wall. The picture was that of a soldier, holding up his gun to shoot and saying  ‘Jesus loves me’. I frowned at his determination, my lips twitching.

It was only when I had crossed my own threshold when I noticed the missing plastic bag and documents. I shrugged out of my coat, and let it drop to the floor. I got out of my shoes. With every step, I took off a piece of clothing. I padded into my bathroom, shivering. The window was a sheet of silver, the moon reflected a thousand times in the ruffed up glass. The mist seemed to have vanished. I struck a match and lit a candle, not bothering to switch on the lights. Then I got into the bathtub, feeling the hot water flowing over my waned body. The water droplets sparkled like a million diamonds, my skin glowed like molten rock in the candle light. I gave a delighted giggle, then sank below the water surface with a weak smile.

I know talking about the weather is a klichée…But it does mostly seem like a good conversation starter.

Well, where I live, Temperatures have changed, so that our weather is moving towards the subtropical climate …The days of August are so hot and humid, that you feel like you’ll end up in a puddle.

You probably all know a sultry summer: Everything sticks together. You can feel sweat beads rolling down your back. You desperately try to catch that tiny shift in the air. Your brain feels addled and you stare into nothingness, lights winking and your thoughts slugging along slowly.

That’s the way I felt this morning, sitting at my desk, all the cells in my body screaming for some way of release, some way of cooling down. All the while, I had to endure my teacher taking us through a painstakingly long history lesson that might otherwise have been thrilling but was nearing torture in this heat. I felt trapped in my body.

Whenever I’m in situations like this, my mind takes over.

In my head, I started uprooting from where I was sitting, floating over the desks and my classmates blank faces, out over the school yard, its trees and brittle grass. I imagined my sweaty, tired body plunging into cool, billowing water. Just floating down a river, my hair dancing in the currents and the water cleansing me, washing away my depressed and frantic musings about the next few weeks. I am naked whilst the normally packed riverbanks are empty, void of judging eyes or lusty fingers.

You might be asking yourselves why my imagination would create me ‘au nature’. Well: I hate swimsuits. They worry me. They always seem to be so much more erotically engaging than the actual nude. It doesn’t seem fair for me to have to present myself as meat on a meat market. I generally prefer natures honesty.

Back at my desk, this scene amused me for about a minute, but these kinds of little vivid pictures don’t last long. That’s when I started composing a story. It’s another one of my pretty little pastimes.

I fled to a place so far away from my muggy classroom,  I ended up in a different season. It is winter and it’s snowing…

SNOW-a short story

 She was so exited to finally leave her mother’s womb. All of her brothers and sisters had fallen already, breaking from the safe ranks and quickly tumbling out of sight. Now it was her turn. But she was hesitating, probing her feelings.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Other than the sound of her feet sinking through the snow and her heavy breathing as she was stomping along the ridge of the hill, there was complete silence.

She had finally let go. In the first moment she was horrified, the vast white land expanding below her. But then she found that she was thrilled, letting herself be carried this way and that by the stirrings of wind, swirling and spiraling through the air.

Cold flakes stuck to her hair and landed on her shoulders. Above the girl, gray and heavy clouds hung low in the sky, pregnant with the beautifully unique snowflakes. The earth was covered already with a layer of white, disguising all hard and sharp edges.

Unexpectedly, a dark shadow crossed her path. A flutter of feathery wings disturbed her peaceful dance.

The long call of the king of the winds reverberated through the open space and she paused, struck by the sheer beauty of the song.

Now the ground was dangerously close and yet, she did not worry. She would be joining her siblings soon. Full of joyous relief, she danced on.

She thrust out her arms and started turning and turning because if she hadn’t, the happiness in her heart would have surely spilled over.

Below her she saw a figure spinning on the ground. She thought fleetingly that she should try to evade it. But her little center was full of love for her brothers and sisters, thus she was made ignorant.

The girl faced upwards to watch the eagle fly away and when it was gone, she closed her eyes.

She was alone now. All of her kin was home, already on the ground. Suddenly, breathtakingly and one second away, a human face stood out from the dark shape.

One last snowflake landed softly on her eyelid, melted and like a tear, it clung to her eyelashes and then rolled down her cheek.


A hand that etches into being

memories and pictures

like the faithful tool it is.


He asked: What is a text?

And how it came to be.

She said: A ramdom thought

and one strange smile

A laugh, a pen, a while.

And sleep was keen,

the writer dreamed

and so the word was caught.

That is the key.

For now, for this thing to be next.

Love, SS

Imagine a Forest

 Imagine a forest.

Imagine it being solitary.

Solitary is good.

Good for a forest.


Imagine your bare feet,

moving over damp decay.


It smells musty.

It feels rural.

It’s cool.


Imagine a forest.

A forest is always brown.

Brown is good.

It’s powerful.

Imagine brown being warm and raw and home.


Imagine a tree.

Its wild.

Its deep.

You hear it.








Trees are the drums of nature.

Imagine there’s a rhythm.

It’s a tangled, chuckling music.



You are alone.

We are brown.





Imagine two screaming creatures.


Imagine two beings gloating.

They grip, they grapple.

They grope and grasp.

They scald and shuffle.

They snarl and growl.



They are bent and twisted.

They are turned and folded.

They rip the air.

They tear to tear.

Leave naught behind.


one small seed,

surrounded by destruction.


Imagine a forest.





Fellow spirits, thanks for visiting my blog!

I’m a budding writer and artist…practising, scribbling, sketching and learning as much as I can, ignoring schools toll on my free time.

I love walking outside in the wild forests surrounding my home. I’ll cross a foxes path or disturb a badger family’s leisurely evening stroll and get a flash of new ideas in my head. I love cycling in the hills, you get breathtaking views. That is how I get my inspiration for writing. I like physical exercise and fresh air to sort through my thoughts and calm my mind. I don’t go for walks enough by far.

Afterwards, I often feel a compulsory need to put my ideas to the pen. I love my runaway imagination, but sometimes it is very headstrong and needs to be brought to order. Also, I often have to fight against periods of crushing apathy, born I am sure, out of my addiction of the screen.

This page is here to help me get a better understanding of quality. And you are going to be my primary source of wisdom! I need objective, constructive critique, so I implore you to leave your impressions as comments below.

Just remember that I have had no writers education as such. I read a lot and have learned about it a bit in school.

Furthermore, my mother tongue is german. But I am absolutely fluent in english (my father is Scottish) and swissgerman (where I grew up). I’m even semi-fluent in french, but I don’t really feel brave enough to try out my writing skills in a foreign language. I have a feeling that that would end in disaster and I generally try to evade offending people’s taste…

I’m going to post all my creations here. They will range from Poems, to impressions of an interesting experience,to stories or articles of political/religious/existential nature….As you can see I’m going to be trying my best in a broad spectrum of styles. All I need you to do is comment and spread my word around, giving me feedback and a broader audience.

I thank you for your time and energy.



Scribbling Spirit

Ps.: Don’t believe in truths!