The Hat is gone

Do you know this feeling? 

There is something material, a thing - but you get attached to it. In a special way. In a way that you really remark and appreciate this thing even if you use it or see it or wear it almost every day.

I had this with a cereal bowl a few years ago. We bought it in France in a small sweet pottery store at the beach promenade. It was all colourful and had a glossy surface that you'd like to touch. 
When I accidently broke it several years later, I really felt like a part of me broke, too.
And you could argue that's just childish or you could see me as a capitalist and ruthless person that clings to material things more than people. 

But for me it was more than that. It showed an extraordinary important truth about myself and about humans in general: Failure. My own powerlessness concerning my own mistakes. 
Realizing that some steps can't be took back. Some decisions, or even non-decisions - just slippery hands or a wrong word can lead to a very bad thing and you can't do nothing about it. I can turn it in my head round and round: I could have... I should have... If there only had been... If I only knew... I would have...

Still in the end, I'm back at ground zero, realizing that there is no reverse button for this, that I can't just easily pick up the pieces and repair the bowl.

Heb die Scherben von gestern auf - und merk: Sie gehn' nicht mehr zusamm' - Max Herre

This counts for a relationship as well as for a cereal bowl. It matches my feeling after I dropped a pot of boiling soup on my bare feet. It cruelly reminds me of the day someone died and I could have prevented it. If I just had said: "Let's go home!" an hour earlier. 
Someone would still be alive that is not today. This was 4 years ago, but sometimes I still feel the same damn feeling. I feel

powerless.

I feel goddamn human. Tiny in a fucking big universe. Afraid of getting too afraid to do anything if anything can lead to anything. If anything means that someone dies.
If anything means that you lose someone forever. 
Or if anything only means that you break your favorite dish.

A while ago a had a hard time - a confusing, sad, depressing time (Booooys problems, obvi) and I came up with a good metaphor (because I do extremly well in coming up with good metaphors). 
I pictured someone that I left behind standing inside a house with an open door. A door that I didn't slam, a door that I left open when I pissed off into nirvana. 
There he is and there is the open door. He is someone that has still feelings for me even when I hurt him big time. If I'd turn around and come back, he'd welcome me, I could still go through the open door.
But I think there is a limited time span for the door opening hours. Once closed, it will probably never open up for you. And when time passes, maybe someone else will come in and close it. It won't be open forever. So I ran back when I knew I still was able to. I calmly and steadily walked away from this door believing that I did what was best for me. 

And then I realized where I was heading... No, I didn't know where exactly I was going but I suddenly understood that this someone I left behind in the house wasn't going to follow me and join me. 
So I turned and I fucking ran. I sprinted and I made it before the door closed. 







But the words that were already said, the things I had done before I left couldn't be erased. The broken fragments of the bowl still lay there on the floor. I had shattered it. And now I could barely fix it. 
I am so sorry for this. And for the ones who had to suffer so that I could find my egoistic way through this jungle of feelings, expectations, confessions, non-articulated thoughts and walls. I'm sorry.
 

What this was all about - or at least what was on my mind when I started this entry, was the fact that I lost my hat. I was drunk. I rode my bike (you really shouldn't do this, kids!). I had a small accident and fell (see?!). And the hat was gone. 

Now, I look at pictures before last year and realize that I already was a whole person before I wore the hat. But somehow it felt safe to wear it. Like a masquerade - like who I wanted to be. Red lipstick, black hat, blurry nights. It was more than appearance, it added up to my identity. Now I feel naked sometimes, even when fully dressed. 
I desperately try to compensate my feeling of loss by wearing a lot of beanies. Yes, I'm aware that I'm writing silly shit down now... But there's a true core to everything we say. Wearing a hat changed me. Or I changed so I started wearing a hat...? Whatever way round, I lost it. And I can't turn time back to avoid losing it. Screw me, right? But...


The hat is gone. Why don't you live with it?