Why I don´t like to stay here? I have my friends and family, almost my past is grounded here in the south of Germany. I can meet the best people in the world, repeat again and again the protocol of my accident and the hell of a treatment after, drink tea, stay inside, mind the cold, hope not to get cold and don´t think too much of Cambodia. I really appreciate to spend my time here with my loved, but never felt so displaced in my life. I always did, in an abstract way, like you pull over your shirt and you don´t know why but you don´t want to wear it, not because it is burned by the the last cigarette couple of hours before, or the wrong print, because you don´t listen to the band anymore, you don´t want to wear a shirt at all, you don´t feel like wearing a shirt, you even don´t want to stand up, wake up, start your 9 till 5, getting fucked by the marmot. Ask yourself why you still egging around, your career hasn´t begun yet, with your potential, with your skills, visions, dreams, why not and why not you! Fuck. And you write your barfellow, before you had your teeth brushed, after you checked your mails, with your shiny iPhone, with your head pitched in the pillow, “How is your hangover? What´s up tonight?” I always felt displaced, I started to feel not right, outter my life, living another bum´s life. Bored. No challenges, even to stand waiting all the time maybe is one of the biggest. Suicide was not an option, too narcissistic. So I moved. Inside. Outside. Needling myself with decisions of no turning back, with a lot of imagination there are points like that, created by anger, created by hate, by boredom, sucked by mischief, even for a middle class boy like me, trying to keep myself down to the ground – weird moments of solidarity with the victims of society, precious moments of growing up. So you are fired every day, with this successful, creative, modern, perfect wannabees, with whom you have to make business, they seem to kick you to another level and gonna pay your bills, my work, and of course they appreciate your creativity, your ideas and your part of their success. Suckcess. They talk, cheap. A lot. Sometimes I had this days, back here in Germany, sitting in my office, my superfancy working-space, but not to personnel, of course, it might not appear narcissistic, but self confident and trustable of course, not too successful, others maybe envy you, so they don´t make business with you or they will, but just to use you, fudging a story to be part of your pretended success, a hilarious circle of jerks… so I was sitting there, in my scuffed leather chair, in the right my iPhone, someone was blah-blahing, explaining me the greatness of her his ideas, my feet on the desk, in my left a pen to remind myself after what´s the deal now… thinking I am doing a good job, what I for sure did, and I felt doing a favour, favour myself, serving my desire to feel who I am, a creative misunderstood middle class boy, who was not ready for that, meaning life. Poor dear little boy, haha. I had everything I need and more. Enough money to get drunken during the week, enough friends to keep me away from being drunken all the time, a running business, sometimes a slap on my back, “Well done! I like what you are doing, your style.” My style… it is your style, I just created it for you, that you, all of you feel more comfortable with myself, you buy my shit and think you purchased something special. Me, the product. I never felt I have a lot of choices, options, but of course hundreds of opportunities, if you work hard and with severe discipline, you can reach everything in this world. Work is the magic word. – Sorry, father, as far as that goes you teached me bullshit. I never had the desire to explore myself, even I did all the time and in more in a dismemberinig way, to find my real duty, to find myself. Bullshit, sorry Weed, you taught me slack and easy but still bullshit. I don´t know who I am, but I know now who I don´t wanna be anymore. I don´t know what I wanna do, but I know why I need to. There is more than your cars, your clothings, your style, your wasting time with wasting time. And don´t know what, but I know I will see and will decide if I want to or not, because I want to or not. Here, back in my old life, under pressure, chained by the system and the surrendering culture, I can only be the boy I was, in disbelief and anger, displaced. With all my pores trying not to be a part of. Down there, in Cambodia, I can be. A human, not a product. Me, not always myself. With others, not on the watch. I am stepping closer to what I want to be. Cambodia, Siem Reap, my brothers and sisters there turn me into a better human being.
