There is a time in a man’s life… or so the song goes, but right now I am not missing local politics. About two years ago I took one long walk with Marc along the Aare and at one point I turned to him and declared that if I were to die that day, I would die happy. Happy? I still do not know what that happy means, but the longer I live the more convinced I am that it does not matter what it means.
Chances are that I will not be writing here much in the months ahead. Chances are that I can not predict such things. Sometimes I need to write and have it made public, it is one exercise that I do in this era that we happen to share and shape. Other times I need to keep my writing to myself, and I need long walks. Sometimes I need to be with people and be public forgetting that the private self ever existed, or that it still exists.
Really. Just one.
About one. There is just one culture, there is just one me. There is no better half to me. This is it.
The other whom some might want to label as my better half is also another whole one. We are independent, we are autonomous, and we are connected. We relate to each other. One plus one is still one in this relational algebra of mine. Yet that other, the third one, is much more than a sum. To sum people up, or divide them, is a much too limited operation.
He shares no privileged information with me. Intimacy is after all, just the ability to be oneself, to be authentically one. Really, just one. You and me – we – are ourselves be it in private, be it in public.
I am a deeply private person, that is whom you experience when we are face to face, be it in public, be it in private.
But we are more than just that, more than a few words, more than the sum of a few parts. We also play roles, we act, we play games, we hide, we pose, we deceive, we laugh, we cry, and we put on masks.
I like to tell stories and find myself bound to the interface of fiction and nonfiction.