Don’t look at me so dismissively. When I speak of the melody. Of the one. You heard it once, too. I’m sure of it. And then they started grinning when you told about it. And you felt uncomfortable. Later they shook their heads when you even hinted at her. You were embarrassed. And the more people grinned and shook their heads, the more uncertain you became whether this melody really existed. Whether what you heard there was not only imagination. A fantasy. And you no longer spoke of it. And you were glad when you could no longer hear it so clearly. Then so much noise was blown around your ears, so many images flashed into your eyes, that it was finally completely over with this melody. Should there still have been a slight tinkling, this too was now flooded with millions of senseless hectic sensations.
And this was so beautiful. You followed now simply the noise and the din which all followed and nobody smirked more about you. Or reprimanded you. You were safe in the noise. In each case in that, in which you were just put. And always you followed the noise which you should follow just with the mass.
And there I speak of the melody. And you look at me disapprovingly. You think of the embarrassment and the rebuke and the laughter when others spoke of the melody and then fell silent.
„There is no such melody!“ You have absorbed this deep within yourself. And you no longer feel how much you actually miss it in your life. How you long in all this numbing noise, for this one eternal melody of your childhood days. You have buried the pain of this loss deep, because where there is nothing, there is no longing. Is not it – logical! That is nevertheless – a fact! That was kids‘ stuff! Nonsense! Fluff of an immature child!
That’s how you stand before me now. And I know, would you be ready to leave the din once, would you be ready to sharpen your ear once again. You would hear it again, the one eternal melody of the past childhood days. And you would realize that it is true. You would cry because of the lost times. You would be healed of your deeply buried pain.
But you are conditioned. By the shame, by the rebuke, by the experiences. By the life in the din, which should be everything. You are brainwashed. I guess that’s what they call it.
And you will not leave the din, because there is nothing but him. And as an adult, let’s be honest, you might as well go to the doctor and have him check whether there are still all the marbles in the cupboard, if you would get involved in such a fantasy. And besides: What should one do, if one would hear nevertheless suddenly such a strange melody? Not to be imagined!… that would be… wouldn’t it?