Schwadeli mud - "Morning strudel"


Yes, I would be tempted to climb a painting. It would trigger such a crackling joy in me that I would want to absorb everything that appeared to me in this process out of sheer thirst and hunger, to let it penetrate through me. Then my brain-poor being could feast on something that challenges it to a confrontation. A clash that would certainly penetrate so deeply that it would fertilise thinking beyond the body.



For I am such a person, I draw everything into my centre, because I can't help but reach with full fervour for the incomprehensible. And then it pushes itself into me, the image, and colours itself through my flesh. It burrows and rinses and pumps itself through, because digestion has to take place at such moments.


These snapshots where you feel so immortally alive. As if one were to divide one's existence in half until one had reached one's own indivisibility. And then even the smell of excrement wouldn't deprive you of excitement, because life also exhilarates itself at the edge of excretion and at the end of death.


That, too, is only a transformation of happiness. And happiness, I have been given so immeasurably, simply because I have been thrown into the world where I am. So it is that I can only welcome death when it comes into my midst at some point. And that would probably sizzle and burn just as much as the joy of life itself.


Or the joy of baking an apple strudel on a Sunday morning. The whole kitchen then smells like a relatives' graveyard and the mood tingles like a jump into cold water. Yes, and then you suddenly lie there curled up like the apple strudel dripping with happiness, which actually just wants to throw itself into the stream from all the evaporation, to feel like a freshly squirted apple juice for once.


A sparkling apple juice whose fate it is to smoke itself slowly and leisurely out into the world until only a sweet sugar lump remains. That would be a natural, humane end. So sensuously timeless, as if it were only a subplot, in this picture book life. Because above it, two butterflies flutter into each other with careful intent to weave origami together from their hands. Such crawling livelinesses outlast their indivisibility in the vortex of the soul, as if they would never crumble to dust. They have arrived at the non-place of bewilderment. And now, at the latest, all you can think is, "How strange and absurd, but damn does it feel good!"


And then you would get thirsty again from all the pleasure and hungry again from all the frustration, so that you would want to push all these pleasures out again, so that you could finally take in the vertigo of freedom.



Credits:

  • drawing by felodeli


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