He said it was a hard case, hard to comprehend and, hence, hard to solve. Yet we should not muddle through: we had to keep a clear mind, and we should not assume the assassin was mad.
Picture: der “Tatort” in der ARD, source: web.de
He had come to the city, perhaps even unaware, only to write the story. It was about love, of course, or rather loves, lost, found again, unreconciled. That was two years back. The story, like a forgotten symphonie, was now left, unfinished, unpolished, and even, dare we say, unloved.
Something, someone, was missing, he feared he may know what. Somewhere in the unfathomable memories that submerged him, was a woman, the woman. And she, the sombre beauty of his dream, the one he had wanted to write for, was unwilling to belong, to fit in, to submit to his will.
Without her, what remains was a ghost, an empty shell, the faint shadow of what could have been, of what he so wanted to be.
So it was that he had to reignite the fire, and seduce her, again.
They were aware of a change in sounds, of different scents in the air. Though they knew they were still in the same bond with the City, they did not know, now, when now was.
People walked past them, without seeing them, as if they themselves had become invisible, in a magic circle, as if they had survived a Shift in Time.
Picture: Sans Souci, Potsdam, Schlosse Nacht – ©2015 Honoré Dupuis
We waited for the storm, the lightning, the thunder,
But it did not come, instead, the sky behind the hills
In one brief instant, was alight, as if the true God
Wanted to warn us: the glorious sunset reminded us
That we are nothing without Mother Earth.
His gaze followed the road, as its silvery line slowly disappeared through the woods. As the sky was getting darker, he thought he would have to walk faster to avoid the storm.
This world was different, the landscape diffused, as if on the brink of disappearance. Was this reality, or only a dream?
Picture: Church in Lübars, Berlin © 2017 HonoréDupuis
When we left – how long ago was it? – it was summer. As we look over the tall trees, disappearing through the dark, icy air, we know that, here, wherever “here” is, it’s winter. But we don’t feel the cold, we just know it is.
Through the foliage covered with snow, the vision of a dream-like castle, its spires and turrets, appears, emerging from the mist. Is it a dream, or a nightmare? Are we lost, have we taken the wrong turn, on whatever road we followed?
Are we elsewhere? When did we leave the warmth and light of our city? This world is grey, and, now, we cannot guess what horrors await us.
Under the bright green canopy we do not feel the heat of the day, nor do we venture in the full light. You and I merely enjoy the peace, the remoteness from the living. Far away, we hear children playing, perhaps even the notes of a violin, invisible, beyond the orchard.
We have lived nearby, in a house full of memories, ours and many others’, who may have forgotten us. For we have escaped time, as we replay those cherished moments in silence, our puzzled, ethereal ghosts haunting this land forever.
The stage was set long ago, where we have to admit our guilt, the betrayal of all that we believed in, when we were young.
That innocent person, that child, has grown into this: a pretentious liar, a coward, a traitor to what is fair and noble, an unctuous criminal.
The angel is waiting, the page is blank.
We will have to confess, for once, we will have to tell the truth.
Not only tell, but write it.
It’s that, or the gun, lying on the table.
A clear choice: go to the light, or die the miserable death of the servants of the Enemy.
Picture: grave in Invaliden churchyard, near the Hohenzollern Kanal © 2016 Honoré Dupuis
For millennia they stood, tall and proud guardians of the hills. Humans, and smaller animals, sought refuge at their feet. Much later, villagers danced around them, and celebrated sunrise, touching the smooth stone for luck and prosperity. No-one knew what spirits, or forces of nature, had erected them, long, long ago, when the earth was young.
Then the floods came, washing away much of the ancestral soil, and the ground had given under their weight: tired after all, they’d fallen slowly to the ground, as if punished by the gods for their pride.
Now, the sleeping giants lay, silent, surrounded by ferns and the quiet voices of young trees. The earth is again at peace, humans, and smaller animals, still come here to rest at their feet.