How many times have I tried to see. How many times have I tried to see you. And yet I didn’t manage to escape myself. Whereby, escape is a very harsh word in this context, because if I should actually succeed in escaping myself, like the persecuted her persecutor, if it were possible to hide me from me, it would be impossible to find, it would be fatal because it happens now and then when it happens that I need my own person and their presence. If I had then hidden myself so well that I would no longer be able to find myself, if I had misplaced myself without being read, if I had laid myself to one side completely, then the goal would again be missed because I could. Only then will you no longer see you. See you, perceive you as yourself, I can only do that with myself, through myself, but not by seeing myself and you next to me, but rather opening up a space in me, the most beautiful one that I find in me To let you in and to welcome you. That would be to see you, but I keep catching myself seeing you mirrored in me, a caricature of yourself, an outline of a view that is believed to be true.
It’s not you, I keep finding out. When I didn’t see that it was my fault, it was meant reproachfully when I said, you are not you as yourself when you are here with me. Until I finally understood, you are not you when you are here with me because I do not allow you to be you and not just the reflection of my being here or an illusion. We then call this deception, accuse me, you deceived me about your true nature, and it was always us, deception, of ourselves, so skillfully and hidden that we believed in the guilt of others, yes, us them certainly thought. And so quickly one loses oneself, not in oneself, but in oneself, than first in the reflection and then in the self-deception. The madness takes me tightly in its arms, squeezes until I can’t breathe, and the tighter I buckle my blinkers, the deeper I crawl into myself. Not losing myself and yet lost in me, I see nothing and no one anymore, in abandonment of autocracy and in my own hostage. But I want to see you and give you space and let you arrive, and at the same time I am shaken by the fear of loss. Where I win you I lose myself, maybe a little, at least as far as the space I open up. You gently take me aside and point me out, but there will always be the possibility of losing, however you turn it, you can always lose. But you can lose yourself and then it is nothing more than a loss, because you cannot gain anything. But if you lose yourself in me, this part, then maybe you will lose this, but you can win, because part of me that I open to you and in which I give myself to you. An option, well worth considering, and it sounds so accessible and feasible when you put it that way, but it’s so difficult, so infinitely difficult when you are used to holding what you have because when you let go, then you have it no more, no matter what is to be won. In the beginning there is the loss, and who knows if it will be compensated. You don’t guarantee me that, there is never a guarantee, and that’s why I prefer to hold on and stand in my way and reflect yourself in myself, and yet I don’t stop wondering why I don’t understand you and why you are so far are gone and why you are not yourself. In spite of everything, I remain cautious and fearful within myself and am satisfied with the illusion, because what I make for myself, you won’t break it for me, at least if I close my eyes tightly and believe in it, and then do it is also nothing if you are nothing more than a reflection in me.