Зимон Штраус - Seven Nights

IAM WRITING THIS out of fear. Out of fear of the seamless transition. Of not having noticed that I’ve grown up. No initiation, no final exam. I simply floated into thirty. Got all the degrees, always showed up on time, smiled a lot, not much crying, cried a little, but mainly smiled. Jumped onto many bandwagons, took a short ride, then changed direction. I’ve traveled to distant places.

I know my way around the world. Have spoken with a lot of people, seen a lot of images, heard a lot of voices. Stood in the wind, here and there. But what really means something to me, what I really believe, I cannot say. Where I want to go, that’s much easier: up and up—the ladder is long.

I’ve never lacked ambition. Even in school, I was the first to class, ready for the teacher to confirm with a nod that I had scored the highest grade. When I arrived at university, I told the professors what they wanted to hear. I loved to see their faces light up when I hit the right tone at the right moment, when I referenced the theory they were waiting to hear. I betrayed my heart for them. And in the evening, washing dishes, told myself there would still be time for dissent. And I would visit Rome when the weather was nicer.

A sympathy junkie. Quick to profess things I know too little about. Dreaming of opposition, but in the crucial moment remaining silent or halfheartedly searching for common ground. When it gets loud, I cover my ears. When an angry glance cuts in my direction, I look up at the ceiling, the cracks in the paint.

And now I sit here, in the middle of the night, listening to the rain tap the windowsill. All the lights have gone out in the windows across the street. Tatort is over, the salmon tartare consumed. Only the occasional sight of the naked man, still caught up in his dream, opening the fridge and reaching for a bottle of milk. The white fluorescent glow hits his thighs. Otherwise, nothing but silence.

And I think, I hope, there’s still something to come. Quickly, before it’s too late. I have no reputation to lose yet. No art collection, no front lawn. No children who could eventually leave home, nor early fame that would later strip away courage.

But soon, very soon, I will have to decide. On a life, a job, a woman. Soon the days and meetings will pass, without changing anything. The moments will remain without consequence and the tremors will subside. There will be structure. And I will be a servant to my ambition.

I am afraid of looking back later on gray, straight paths. Of losing my emotions along the way. Of routine taking over. Of the sheltered security, of convention bringing me to my knees. I am afraid of never having raised my voice, of always remaining at a library volume, that’s what I fear, sitting here at my tidy desk, with a candle and a pen, ready for dictation. The projects will come, I will be challenged and promoted. Exiled to an office with a window that can’t be opened. I feel threatened to my core by the drab frame of my future life. The frame is already hanging in the upper-right corner of the white wall, ready to fit me in, to pin me into a fixed pose.

From the beginning I’ve had a space by the warm stove, always well fed, handed every opportunity. The opera subscription came with birth. I was born a weakling and my privileges have only made me weaker. Danger is something I have never felt. Without a clue that paths could lead anywhere but up. I am trapped in a bubble of happiness. I’ve fought for little. There were always enough ping pong tables between classes. When I turned eighteen, compulsory military service was abolished.

With every good grade, every agreeing nod, I’ve become duller: “What you’re saying isn’t wrong, but you could look at it in a different way.” Compromises compromise. They weaken your handshake. Take the elevator too often, and you won’t be able to find your way to the back stairs. You’ll get stuck in comforts, lose your desire, lose the urgency.

I’m afraid of not wanting more than I have. I’m afraid I’ll miss the right moment to leap. It’s not enough to climb construction fences at night, pouring sand in your shoes and rubbing mud on your coat to give the impression of adventure and real risk to anyone who might visit. A torn jacket sleeve and a hickey on your neck don’t make you a hero. It’s not worth breaking the law just for short trips beyond the comfort zone. They don’t lead into the open. They merely ensure that everything stays as it was before.

The fear of failure is nothing but a tic, a way to prepare for defeat. But the fear of compromise is the real barrier. Soon I will only lead conversations that begin with “Stress” and end with “so much to do.” Will sit in lunch breaks and dream of sabbaticals and promotions.

Before falling asleep, I’ll think about raises and wonder if there’s enough baby food in the fridge. Clouds will drift above my head, and I’ll never look up at them. Stars will fall and I’ll be too tired to make a wish. I’m afraid of prenups and stuffy conference rooms. Afraid of bank holidays and the first insincere smile. Of my free existence coming to an end, of a permanent position, retirement funds, spa weekends in May. Afraid of the Curriculum Vitae, maybe.

That’s what this night is about. That’s why I’m writing. The only battle worth fighting is that for emotion. The only desire that counts is that for a beating heart. Too much ground has been lost to cynicism. It wraps its cold fingers around everything, blows out the last candle, locks the last emergency exit, tears down the last curtain. Cynicism is claiming victories on all fronts. And for those of us who fall behind, it’s there to tend to our wounds with Nivea creme. It leads us to believe that all we need to catch up is its help. In reality, though, cynicism is hollowing us out, drilling deep into our core, extracting the precious resources that are stored there.

In its company, we are quick to laugh at others. Only later do we realize how weak it has made us. How our emotions, our sympathy, our enthusiasms have atrophied. We arrogantly believe that sheer calculation can achieve anything. In the dusty archives of reason, we too often search for answers that can only be revealed under the open sky. There is a hidden place inhabited by a secret that can be pondered, but never solved. Only purely logical thinkers can deny this. “Evidence exhausts the truth,” Georges Braque said. And Claudel: “One who admires is always right.”