I thought of
World War I
. When young men were scorched in trenches at the hand of
industrialization
's first war. The
birds
chirped and sung alongside the machine
guns
and artillery blasts. They could be heard during the quiet times.
But for a 19 year old volunteer who grew up believing
war
was glorious, what attention or time could they have to enjoy or appreciate the sounds of
birdsong
when most their comrades had already died or were maimed. When he himself could catch a bullet inside his intestine or brain at any part of the day.
With an outlook that grim, it didn't matter how beautiful birds could be to the appreciative palette.
I lay in the bed inside the room I once considered much larger. I never thought it to be a large room per se, but I never thought of how small it was like I did now. It made me feel
claustrophobic
compared to my high ceiling flat in Berlin. This is how the people in my town lived. This is how my parents lived. This is how my
parents
would die.
Growing up I never expected the living conditions of my parents to become one of my laments. I thought I would be sweating over other things like women... which I lament over as well.
But I never imagined the darkness and smallness of my parents house to be a thing that hurt me so much. My friends in Berlin didn't know this about me. When they imagined my town they pictured a rustic scene. They probably thought the people in it were better off than the city folk of
Berlin
. And who was I to correct them? If they had childish imaginations of my hometown being some pastoral paradise, I'd rather they believe that. For when I was in Berlin doing Yoga and eating Doner and drinking 3 euro
espresso
, I could imagine that it was true as well.
Dating. Yoga. Self help books. Concerts. Bars. Startups. Design.
All of it were akin to artillery and gunfire to drown out the reality of where I came from.
